The abandoned lines are welcome. They collect on scrips and pages.
Writing is something that I can not believe I will have time to do.
My first thought was to go back to the place where I was sitting. For a time, I was simply there and trying. Gardening, while a gang of robins followed me about the bed – inspecting my work.
The second thought was you. Somehow the verses always came as if you spoke them. You are not here and the poetry can be seen through; the language is not the answer. The rhythm is listless.
The drumbeats of my favorites are thrumming in the past.
I open up the door and get the mail from the slot.
There is a letter from a woman in Seattle, a postcard from a school friend visiting Niagara Falls, coupons for home improvement tasks, and a form letter guarantee for future savings – if I act now.
I write this all down for future projects, perhaps ones that could be emerald and glistening, for poems about lost souls and overwhelmed emotions. For times when I need to cover. Maybe build a patio that sees the sky or install block windows to hide.
The abandoned lines are welcome, they fill the page and occupy my mind.