After a summer of good work and a tour of Europe, pleasure dissipated under piles of mail, past-due bills, and interminable heat.
Pure exhaustion took control.
My face an arid moonscape,
thirsty but unable to drink,
mirrored internal conditions,
covered in dusty avoidance.
I play Hamlet’s ghost:
Circle my world —
A full moon’s view,
options at a distance,
warning of necessities,
doing nothing but hiding from the sun.
Unable to distinguish seasonal colors,
Blinded by persistent sunlight,
I hide inside —
stare at dried-up dreams, shielded by air-conditioned reason,
too cold to move.
When the night sky beckons, I sit outside as shadows streak naked legs across yellow grass and hummingbirds protest my lack of diligence.
Everything screams for relief.
Furious wings thirst for the nectar of attention.
Starved intentions eye tomorrow’s promises with trepidation.
Mountains of anxiety burn for recognition as the full moon charms a cool breeze for the night and reduces the boil,
And
Gentles the light for calmer reflection on healing ways to hit the road or stay at home.
THH
9/16/26
