You definitely can’t push a rope.

I’m getting nowhere with revising and creating the poetry for the workshop session on Thursday. My muse is not even a rope; she’s a thread — a worn thread raveling from the edge of my sleeve of care.
Instead, I
— take my mom out to find a quad-cane that works for her; none of them is the one
— start trying to root two avocado pits
— touch up my hair color, which takes some time because I mix two different colors (it’s that tinkering thing again)
— eat some chocolate
order a nose aspirator and cheap stethescope for my grandson.
— check my weblog comments
— read my son’s weblog
— read my email and follow a link to here
— finish the fabric book I’m making for my grandson
— cook up a batch of chicken marsala and freeze some for my next Boston trip
— leave the new batch of dishes in the sink for later
— pet my cat
— blog
— ponder some more the woman in the Vermeer painting and come up with this:
She wonders what lie to tell him this time.
A husband returned from trade too soon?
A fretful child awake all night with fevered dreams?
What she can

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