Bits of salt remain on the steps like so much strange FROST. I try to get them off, but they are stubborn and STICK to the concrete, reminders of the last snowstorm. I SWEPT once, then again, finally settling for shifting aside a wide SWATH of dead leaves and Christmas tree debris.

Georg’ann

Saturated with stories, input.
Cognition frozen, spinning
the rainbow wheel of cannot
compute. In this bright room

I feel more aligned with a dark
musty CABIN, weathered.
Imagination won’t SPARK,
Clogged thoughts are STALE.

Before me a long SWATH
of open hours. There are tasks
yet no set timelines.
The day is mine to empty.

Heather