somewhere beneath these endless layers
of blankets and cushions, a pea is hiding
for i am lying here like a supposed princess
too aware of some impenetrable disquiet
which halts the picking up of pen and paper
(although only a metaphor - i pour my poems
first into a notepad function on my cell phone)
and as my trunk and limbs repose
face communes with shuttered windows
to which deceiving light rays percolate
through atmosphere today officially colder
than the north pole, i'm soaking in
ai, leonard cohen, adrienne rich, fellows on wordpress
and questioning the sapience that swayed me
to compose the early verses; these past two months
a blur - a nebulous analysis, since doubt
has paid a recent visit to the craft; regardless though
continuation is tenacious if only to delight the soul
of grandmother who watches from the wall
through a framed window of her own abode
