Writers Day

This morning, remembering the end of times is not that far off I sampled my cinnamon and sugar toast glad I did not have a cough. The timer on the oven was showing me I had gotten up pretty late. It was too late to do most anything, but time is frankly not my fate. Words are all we offer as proof we existed, we poets and writers. We come across as passionate, as big brave dope fighters. In actuality, we are more frightening on paper, if you want the truth. We can become pilots, astronauts, daredevils, and sometimes Babe Ruth. I can write about kitchens, pirates, dragons, elves, and other crazy things. A pear, its moisture sucked dry and wearing a lei of succulent apple rings. I take down six pens in a row, but the ink is all dry, making me mad. I am scribbling on empty, several times. It is irritating and sad. Box of desire opened under the futility of trying to get something to write. I throw down the pens and walk outside to encounter my garden and daylight. The morning is salvaged when I see the butterflies flirting and flitting. It is a fantastic day to sit and admire my yard. A day for porch sitting.