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
Darkness is a local swimming hole
I glide in and out of it everyday.
Delving about in my art…
exposing bits and pieces of my soul.
And, I flounder in my anger…when I do so.
I account for mistakes like lily pads that have gone astray.
I bargain with hopes and dreams…as though they were in rhythm with the waves.
A dance routine shown to less than a handful.
As stark New Hampshire waters pillage in my depth…I know I must not standstill.