Unproductive

I told a friend that I was going to be intentionally unproductive today.  Which is what I am doing, more or less.

After yesterday's full schedule of seeing patients, I am unabashedly unproductive.  Pruning a few words  beside two slumbering cats, catching glimpses of three cardinals through the kitchen window while at breakfast.  Already, the day feels full.

Light Snow

Day after it left
behind the piebald
and powder
blown like magic.

A woman
twirls on her bike
round the sheerness of her scarf
in the mist, in the birch.

A Bad Move

Out of desperation, I take the antihistamine in the morning. Drowsiness sets in, with that particularly chemical feeling spreading over me.  I do battle, with more tea, some poetry.  But the words remain literal, stolid.  They plant themselves outside the fog, while from the inside I peer out, trying to blink away oblivion.