April 29, 2012
From the Sunday Scribblings

Now, the storm has passed,
or at least blown away for as long as
a afternoon nap lasts,

and I have a moment
to think uninterrupted thoughts,
write one or two of them down.

How many poems have been
derailed by a whoop,
a whine, a scream,
between brain and pen?

The clouds loom
dark and cold as my
forgotten coffee, set down during the
last storm,
the cream separated and
drifting among the darkening clouds,
ready to be knocked to the floor,
spilled like so many gathering thoughts.