{In which I find myself} writing to an unfinished accompaniment*

I have draft after draft of unfinished posts. This is because some of the writing is not good, or the subject matter is not worth writing about, or too worth writing about perhaps, and I cannot do it justice.

I have been slowing down, taking more time here and less time there. This is in some ways simply an echo of my physical reality. The phrase "great with child" is an apt one. I am seven months great, and so have a bit more time to become greater still. (I will not be sad if my greatness is cut short by a few weeks.)

And here is where I stop every time: the ability to tie things together, to wrap things up tidy and neat simply fails me and I am left, as it were, great and incomplete. Another draft.

* * * * *

Yes, these days I am full of drafts. I hope someday to complete them, but it's as if my mind refuses to channel a thought, is incapable of pulling itself out of the cosmic sphere of creation with anything concrete. I am left to drift wherever I will, without definite idea or direction or force. It's not without it's beauty. But it can be unnerving.

I shall bank on the shore eventually. But until then, here I sit in an open hand, the breezes around me, hoping that when the wind kicks up I shall stay safe. **

*Acknowledgment, apologies and thanks to W.S. Merwin. You are my favorite.

** Forgive the mixed metaphors...it's like I said...