i was in a rather versy mood this weekend.
(i know, some would rather i write "poetic," but versy really is the better, self-deprecating,
makeshift and indignant word here. for verse can be so much worse than prose,
when phonetics take too much pride in themselves.)
anyway, so the riming just rolled out of me.
and for the last two days i see-sawed between—
sitting at the table feigning wit and intellect with a stack to read
and a trademark notebook filled with cursive scrawl which bleeds all the wants of my heart—
and all the jumpstarts of joy that had me dancing, telling stories, taking pride, gliding through
imaginary skies, playing hide-and-go-peek, whilst we holed up inside to seek
refuge from the insufferable toll of this merciless winter.
and i yearned.
for much of poetry is yearning.
and learning
to appreciate all that you already have.
the art of love
l.m