Rough patch—

hard to catch the rhythm, the mojo, the want-to, my stride, even my breath.

The energy of my old self seems impossible to match.

The blues seem to latch on like a sasquatch snatching a ride on my back,

staggering me down into the scratchy thatch.

I’m hoping the next batch of minutes, hours, days

will bear different fruit and hatch

 a new brood of inspired paintings,

the fortitude to finish sculptures-in-progress,

dispatch my spirit from down under

so I’m eager to offer beauty and hope in a joyous potlatch