This is the time to face the work.
The deep breaths of inevitability
build to something like a meditation.
Time to dig in to the muck of laundry
and dusting and boxes piled without purpose.
Time to redefine the boundaries of possibility
according to my wingspan.
Naturally, I am sitting with a computer and writing words. Making marks of something like intention as I move muscles again and stretch behind closed eyes to the rhythms of a sound long mouthed, rarely spoken.
No, but for real. My room is a damn mess.
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