Wasted Time

Words persist in failing me. Sand castle paragraphs dissolve, sentences scatter like roaches fleeing light, metaphors jangle like misshapen bells. All night I scratched away at the paper and I ended up with nothing but smears of graphite dust on my hands. It were better had I merely sat quietly, listening to the crickets. Their sounds make more sense than do my thoughts.

There was something about small things slipping away unnoticed, until the accumulation of change suddenly becomes apparent, and something about missing welcome sounds, but the words never gave shape to the abstractions. At last, I tossed them aside and went out to watch the late moon rise. It has the company of clouds once again. I have the company of confused thoughts. This is one of those times when things will probably get worse before they get better.

I will now sleep, and maybe I'll dream my way to coherence. If not, I'll try drink.

Dusk

The first cricket chirps evening's arrival, risking the attention of the last birds. There were cirrus clouds today, great swoops of creamy white so thin they cast no discernable shadows. I took a few minutes to watch them. Monday is a busy day, and there is more to be done.

The cat no longer comes to sit on my lap in the evening, but sleeps in one of her hidden spots. Early in the morning, when I go to bed, she still hops up to climb on me for a while and purr as I scratch her ears. That is now the only time she desires attention. She is grooming herself less, and beginning to smell a bit ripe. I laundered the top bedding today, and might have to do so again tomorrow. It's a matter of days.

The lilies have begun to wither quickly in the unaccustomed heat, but the rose bushes have produced a dozen new blooms and sport more than a hundred unopened buds. It will be a spectacular display. I wish I could feel greater anticipation for it.

All day, I have wanted to see places which have been gone for decades. The florid days of spring this year are haunted.