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