I want to feel poetic again;
wake my spine, and enliven my brain.
But all I find are echoes of things past
reverberating off the bare walls.
We cannot push the stream,
but need to feel it open and flow.
If I let go of my wants,
live in a poem instead of scratching out words,
I can still visit old haunts
to see what they have to teach me today.
But I need to find new ground,
and sounds, and the stirrings
of creatures that don’t yet have names.
I dig around and come up empty.
I find no message in a bottle,
no voice of reason,
nor whimsical muse.
The truth is I need to do my dishes,
find repose in bubbly water
and other boring chores that I must do.