I didn’t get immediately out of bed. I stayed there for a short while, listening to the rain. Lingering. Between worlds. Looking as the blue hum of hue, cased in right angles, snuck out from behind the blinds.
There was a note this morning. Left from myself. Orange paper, stuck to the desk. It read, “it is good for a poet to wait in the rain.”
What is worth? Worth time? Money? Worth heartbreak and sorrow? Worth loss? What is worth you best intentions? Why is some other worth none at all? Is it worth the effort? Worth any of this at all?
There is much to write about. That I could write about. People. Their faces. Their moments. The way they sway, sound and smile. Laugh and cry and love. How they wander. And how they take root. And grow. And how part of a person can be stuck in time. Frozen. The amber of the moment,…