it feels ludicrous
indulgent
to make art
at 2pm
on a tuesday.
children scream
and play
outside.
the sun shines
past groundhog day
clouds.
i don't know
if he saw his
shadow.
i haven't seen
mine, haven't
stepped outside.
but despite all my
hesitations
procrastination
creation happens
like the imbolc seeds
that are making
their way beneath
the surface
the destruction is
never complete.
they're still swirling
deep.
i anchor myself
to this still-wet
page.
their tears,
my own confusion,
the darkness of these
days.
i don't know what it looks
like to hold light.
or space.
i don't know how to
show up.
so i sit here,
fingerpainting
freedom,
finding love in the
crevices of pain.
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