Brain Surfing
This year, here in Indiana, last day of May
it’s still cold—
look at that photo (me and Spot)
I call us “little girl with the dog,” that squint
face little thing, me, not Spot. he looks
quite dignified, satisfied he’s king of himself.
I’m just brain surfing—
searching for that wave
that will lift me above myself as I ride
towards the safe shore of a sunny poem.
I haven’t written a poem in days. down my blood
stream float toxins of unvoiced syllables,
fragments of feelings—
coffee grounds dumped in the creek—
and silence, a God-awful, cold silence.
A rather different version of this poem appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems
Linda's Literary Home 