January 20 or so, 2011
I’ve come to find myself
roaming and accessing
what’s most needed in the moment.
If all the winter weather were warmer,
we wouldn’t want it,
would we?
Most of our ideas are conceived in sleep-
Dreams install them in our wishes’ basement.
I’m crying now, yet again -
and sensing I’m the last to know why.
Showers, book reports, notes on a crime.
What savory bits are tugging
at my tear ducts?
Hapless, hopeless, hurting and hostile -
I’m going to go a different direction.
Home again, I’m lost.
Leaving here once more, I tend toward
being found.
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