i seem to have lost myself in the auckland mist – prone to vanishing and reappearing like socks in a dryer. the weather taunting me as i thought only texas weather could…indecisive and cruel in its indecision. this morning it was almost warm, my bulky jacket purchased for my trip south was too much. and by lunch, the breeze had kicked up dark gray clouds and carried ice on its breath to spite my audacious show of only a sweater as i darted to the cafe – my coat languishing at my desk.

tonight is one of those nights when i miss my words. taken for granted for so many years, i never considered what i would do if i didn’ thave poetry. who thinks of those things? instead i wasted reams of paper on bad poetry and instead of marveling at the attempt i think i may have discouraged the ability right out of me…write out of me. even bad poetry might be a relief now…a starting point…a place to lay apology for neglecting white space on napkins where i used to scrawl phrases…the palm of my hand where starting lines would indeed start.

and it isn’t the same as blogging. blogging is to obvious a feat to offer the same freedom as poetry afforded me. i remember the first time i went skiing. i was high off the rush, the speed, the cold, the glory. i wrote a poem about my addiction to the powder and people approahced me  – concerned about my apparent drug habit…and i love that ambiguity. the twist that shows how my mind works differently from yours…or in rare cases when i see that you see what i see.


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