This morning what I’m feeling is a great deal of pain
in my forearms, wrists, hands and fingers
numbness in my right hand and swelling,
painful limited movement in my left thumb
hands that have served me well,
but also need to
rest
making it quite uncomfortable to hold my book
so I rest it (instead of the small dog)
in my lap
outside the window the sky is rather grey
rain is imminent
inside,
despite the state of my slightly over abused hands
I am sitting
quite
content
this rainy day was expected, and is welcomed
the spring garden I think,
looking quite ravishing
with most things thickening up by the day
beautiful varying shades of green bursting forth
everywhere,
is not expecting a thing from me today
except to be enjoyed
for all of its luscious beauty
brief flips through social media these past few days
has me feeling sort of
meh…
I guess one could say,
in a mood to willingly be swallowed
by cynicism
this morning I come across a post from a writer
who is struggling a little with a kind of,
what is the point really, who’s even reading or paying attention
to any of this, what actually am I putting out here
of value… to
whom
grumbles of algorithms, likes, follows and
such
and I guess I am comforted a bit by this,
mutual walking through puddles
if I might consider myself a fellow writer
with sometime
soggy
feet
I have myself been questioning a bit just what kind of ego
thinks anyone should care what kind of driveling
thoughts I might have
to share
although I am by no means dependent upon
this sharing of words
in any monetary fashion
and really don’t bother much with names and
numbers,
it certainly is heartening to find
that the words drifting through my head
and fingers
have somehow planted themselves
somewhere
as to possibly brighten just that
spot
a little bit
so again, I spill…
(to a fault)
well really,
what could be better on a gentle rainy day
such as this,
then to sit in one’s chair
resting things that ache
a nourishing of sorts
the offering of a personal sort of
kindness
(to one so deserving)
a long read, then to
write
of an oh-so-common luxury,
spring rain
and a quiet sit
by the window,
to watch the garden
grow
even if,
I may find, yet again
I am talking
to
myself ♥