My pen is stuck on a January day
When the splurge and flat of clouds
The edge of thought. Twiggy trees, sad and brown
Stand defeated. Words which once
Flew are caught.
A new year and we will, should, must feel the
Bounce and flip of stomach hope.
But if you
Can’t, then swim through last year’s deadlines of the mind:
Lost to urgency, tar-stuck
In artist gloom.
In all the rustle scrunch of Christmas wrap
We dropped our threads and now search
For split ends.
We watch The Briefcase Ones who stand tall in
Their stripes and see our slow start
Through their business lens.
But since this only highlights business cracks
Against the sky shard metal
Of the funds,
It fails to show the human need for art.
Paint’s perfect imperfection
And so, uncertain, we must take our time
And know that meat is richer
And more tender for slow cooking.
We turn our minds but gently
To the page and trust it will
Hold riches for the looking.