I notice I can’t take my hands off the keys.
I want to write.
My body, who is clearly a separate entity
has other plans – and yet,
I want to be here in the rough and tumble
of the seeker’s life,
the writer’s sweat,
the poet’s playroom of deliciousness.
Am I still the inquisitive four year old
fighting the sleep?
Throwing feather pillows in the air?
If I am, my little heart has Loves to live
and passions to embrace…..
Perhaps now I have said it….
maybe now I can leave my fight
and fly into my sleep of dreams.