I am suffering from lack of sleep and can say virtually nothing coherent. So in lieu of an actual entry, here are some pretty flowers from my garden:

�and an adolescent meditation on writer�s block, which I stumbled across recently and which seems appropriate for my lot today:

Poemless

You ignore my hand then
you tickle it, instead
of the expected handshake.
And off you fly.
You have disappeared
into the utter whiteness
at which I dutifully stare.
Once in a while
I catch sight of you
dashing wildly
up and down the margins
of my blank page
like some shadow dancer
with liquid dark footprints,
cackling.
You are Baba Yaga
terrorist of slaves.
You come to kiss me
then bite my ear �
another cackle,
you are gone.
But I am not,
and neither is my page
with its ever-expanding margins.

I am heading out to my porch to sip bourbon and listen to the cicadas.

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