My period can’t figure out
whether it’s going to start
or not, one more thing
reminding me of my hovering
job search, my life
on pause.
The wind is blowing outside,great whooshes of power
gusting, swirling dead leaves,
no live ones as yet.
The turbine on the roof,
bent from a hurricane,
whirls in a bumpy fashion,
as if we had upstairs neighbors,
humping with abandon.
I can’t decide what to do next,
though much of it is nothing
worthy of such indecision.
The Spirit never promised
peace, only sighs.
Cynthia E. Robinson © 2013
