Yoga cancelled this morning an hour after
I roused myself from the blankets, wanting
nothing but to stay in the valley of my bed
and listen to this August rain, happiness
for pumpkin vines and roses and dahlias.
But I was breakfasted and bathed and coffeed
already, and the cats were fed and snug,
so -- ta-da -- I wrote a poem!
It's always such a high, the best kind of high,
that initial inspiration. Never wanting to be forced,
the inspiration snags me by the neck,
or pulls my hair, and I must follow.
The new piece is set in Ireland,
about being led on a horse by my Irish neighbor Anya.
Middle-aged woman being led on a horse.
Ha!
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