justwrite 7 march

thinking about a cold I scold my own held hand demanding sense when all I have are bills the spillover is too much to count the amount of drops cropping up below my eyes surprises me the tea isn’t hot but the pot tries its best resting on the windowsill and waiting for the wind to blow to swing the glass that knocks the kettle the mettle it has is rusting and the trusting mugs wait to be filled wait for the illness to pass and the grass to grow again I’ve been getting a fever and trying to refuse delivery but the shivery night and the thickcold morning are warning their insistence persistence and other such efforts we hurt ourselves accidentally and sometimes again for show but the snow still falls and the calling birds are a misheard version of what they started as but lay in the grass and smell the earth brown and rich the stitches that hold us together can come undone at any moment there’s nothing you own it’s a system we buy into but we’ve got no membership cards it’s hard to hold on to anything but gravity and it lets you go again and again just standing in mid-air like the cards are being dealt I felt something then but it was nothing to get tied up in the sinking as I swim is a lesson I am testing in and out of balance the chances we take and the memories faked into obedience all the good times were good and the bad times are filed away deeper the creepier reflections in the time-honored view it’s true we are looking and cooking with the ingredients we find but here there’s only mine which will have to do fine