I find it a wee bit alarming if many days go by and
In them I never feel an urge to write.
I look at myself and wonder if I'm ok.
(Maybe I need to take my temperature.)
It's not that I'm a great writer.
But I am a writer, after all.
(And maybe before all. I don't know.)
So let me just tell you this--
The days have been weighted with a
Still humidity that is not my favorite.
And yet I have no good reason to complain.
I saw the Variable Sunbird,
Sleek and flirtatious in his bold/shy approach.
He comes so close and I, I just hold my breath.
I watched as all the greens outdid themselves,
Shimmering so in morning sun,
And smiled at sleepy dogs collapsed handsomely at my feet.
I answered mails and did chores
That had long fussed at me (tisk tisk)
From inbox and carefully ignored corners.
And last night I held my daughter's hand
As she fevered in her restless sleep.
Of all my work, it seemed the simplest and greatest to be done.