Perhaps age, or perhaps it’s the 100-degree heat, but my enthusiasm wanes for lots of things, including poetry.
I’m up early enough to write before we leave at daylight when it’s the coolest. Perhaps it’s the drama of the news, its incongruence, its self-righteous and self-serving players vying for the spotlight, for power or money—mostly bad-acting at best, politics has become so terribly transparent these days. Thank God we have work to do.
Yesterday, when we finished processing and doctoring a few eyes of the calves we weaned Tuesday, Terri pulled her iPhone out to document the Greasy calves—something I had planned to do, but didn’t. Thank you, Terri.
Perhaps the work, the satisfaction that comes with the jobs we do is where enthusiasm waits, apart from the distractions of the outside world beyond our ridgelines. Engaged and invested, each day is usually an adventure. So I’ve changed my writing habits to summer afternoons, glad to be inside and out of the heat hoping to find a little more enthusiasm then.
We take sleep when we can,
welcome the dreams that dance
unsteadily from out of dark curtains.
Undisturbed, we are the playwrights,
shaping characters and editing lines
as we move towards an unknown ending
or a mysterious purpose, if any, on this planet
at odds with itself, and with humanity—
yet hoping that the visions we hone
subconsciously will bleed into the daylight
and become like ripe seeds planted
in our brains, waiting, waiting to mature.