I stagger around in my thoughts…as if an open book
as if a locked attic with no key and skeletons that wish to be free
My panic sets in whether day or night
In small snippets I remember the daffodils, the farmland, the rebirth, the light
In small, form fit spaces…this is where the head and the heart fight
I assume nature is alarmed, possibly having already panicked years before
Perhaps, the reason for a locked attic door
