My pencil struggles in summer’s
grip,
wishing for the old soothing
of felt stories.
My muse paces in creativity’s
mind,
wanting for new tales
of lived poetry.
I’ve poured summer
into parchment,
but my pencil dreams
of autumn cool.
-
I used to love summer. I delighted in the heat, in the sounds, in the lively
brightness that seemed to touch all things. But perimenopause has changed
everything. Now, what used to feel rejuvenating, exhilarating, and all-around
fun is just… hot, oppressive, consuming. These days, I find myself yearning for
the cooling touch of autumn. And the way things are going, I suspect that I’ll
soon start loving winter.
-
for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #37: Stay Happy and Alive.
