washwords

Starting with an apology has begun to become cliche and,for this blog anyway, just redundant.

But I am. Sorry for anyone who hung on, hoping I might return and to those who stumbled here accidentally and got…nothing. Blank sky , white wash.

But mostly, I am sorry to me, myself for stopping. My fellow writer pal (one of many I’ve never met but have known in some deeper place from long ago) expressed the hunger, exquisitely.
It hurts me not to write. Not (just ) in some tortured “oh woe is the Writer ” way. No I mean something much much more basic. It hurts my head, spinning muddled banalities. It hurts my heart, opening all the wrong doors to familiar ghosts — blues and lows that sink and sludge. It hurts my stomach, gurgling the junk food of laziness of mind and body.

I know this. And yet I don’t or easily forget anyway. I can’t take back the forgetting.

All I can do is start. Again.

Peeking yellow, red
Tulips break the cold, dark, earth
Yet, still I shiver

Tired of winter
sniffling frozen noses
Grey, slow, roll of cloud

Yesterday, one ray
pierced straight through concrete path
I caught a glimpse: spring.

for more Washwords’ (and friends) haikus see Haiku You

Washwords’ inaugural inauguration coverage has now moved HERE.

In particular, enjoy photos here and moments, articulated here.