I write with one arm underneath
the keyboard, too lazy to get
a hot water bottle for my sore wrist.
The heat penetrates to the aching bones
it feels good to rest without a toddler
a teen toddler and a brooding young man.
Life being what it is
becomes a hassle not worth discussing.
I stopped writing.
I dream of gardens so beautiful
bikers stop to peer into the floral
quandary that is my yard.
Inertia hit me
If I don’t plant now
nothing will grow
This thought pushes me
to chop wood
a brilliant idea
helps me procrastinate
the sowing of seeds
each branch leans the same way
and with all things artistic
only I can build what I want
This is not a collaborative yard,
a community garden
No, it is my outside room.