I was going crazy trying to stitch sense into a fabric project and I woke up this morning to see the trees had already produced buds and beat me to it. The sun is quite absent and the rain makes for a dreary Sunday 🌧️ along with a rejection of a poem from a poetry review. Perhaps, I deal well with these, they make me E. Scissorshands and brutal with a pair 😃

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As the night wove onto the spokes of sleep / the weaver of dreams twined in a strange reminiscing / and she heard the trees groan in buds of Spring, in collective labour //

The kaleidoscope of calico strewn across the floor cleaved moonlight into little squares of nightmares / Here she is, designing beauty in REM / quilted in the hues of a strange pallor //

It was the nucleus of a mist / like the pea under her bed / that kept the princess awake to wondering how Spring would awaken in blossoms / like the trees had it planned all along //

At dawn she felt she would explode legume like into art / creatively abridged into those ten minute DIY / where details are irretrievably lost in the maze of perfection / everything fabricated at the witching hour / to burst out in blossoms //

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I woke up feeling like I needed to write more, maniacally perhaps. I did, after breakfast and a chamomile tea. Love to self and getting through finishing what I started.