36. woundedhaiku / brokensonnet



After a series of months remaining idle, without proper motivation—for some unknown reason I forced myself outside for a halfhour walk. Unexpectedly, the temperature was cool, without a trace of humidity. Unseasonable weather. Overcast. Occasional spit of rain.  But the intentions followed. Blood circulating in a stronger fashion. Few people were outside. Rare joggers. A family of three walked over the footbridge. I kept my mask on the full trip. Stubbornly wanting to set an example. Some people regarded me with odd expressions. I nodded friendlylike. Kept my pace.


Likewise, I kept my eyes open, seeking items for poetic impressions. If only a woundedhaiku or a brokensonnet. The young egret who frequents the channel actually allowed a photograph, midstream.


If calculations are correct, just before my birthday in November, I might be able to finish the last cluster of lines for my long poem River, Fractured. All that is required are twelve lines, nightly, a set per each day of the week. I have wandered off task for far too long. The goal is set. Now its simply a matter of follow through.


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