I'm still in bed.
I write down the letter M and think of a mountain.
Then of the word mother.
My body aches. I need to move.
I look up at the ceiling and think of later.
My left thigh is throbbing.
I could use a hug. I forgot what that feels like.
I think of those who have been quarantined together.
Becoming more distant in the process.
I write because I must.
I think of my artwork in progress.
Plantain trees and the tropics.
How time slips by and yet everyday, we live.
Telling stories of yesterday.
Every page is today shedding the past.
I'm not thinking right now.
Purposefully being mindful.
Acknowledging that indifference saddens me.
The sun is rising, I see the light behind the curtains.
I remember the garden when it blooms.
The buzzing of bees and the feeling of fertility.
I love the sound of pebbles crackling under my feet.
The grain markings on wet sand.
Are they communicating something?
I look forward to listening to jazz.
Will the red robin come by again?
Let me go see.
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