Against Fibromyalgia (a poem)

A crocus in my back yard, which some one I never knew may have planted, though the squirrels do that too. This is the only one like it there.











Against Fibromyalgia

Rain coming in. My hands start to ache.
Shoulder muscles hurt, neck, some strain
in my jaws. And the sky
beyond the clerestory windows
is gray. The spring buds have gone from green
to a quiet statement, withdrawn,
as it were to an old lady grey
(which I wish to spell the British way).
It is early yet. Nests can still be seen
easily, as last night in the park
we heard an unknown bird,
stood and listened, looked up
until the silhouette flew away.

    from Poems Written on 3x5 Cards (unpublished)

[In church on Sunday morning, I often feel a poem come on. I carry 3x5 index cards, so that's what I write on, and that does affect the form of the poem, though this one carried over to a second card. Writing by hand also seems qualitatively different than writing with a keyboard. These are not "difficult" enough for the literary journals, so I never send them out.  Today thought I would begin sharing, especially as this one moves from pain to remembered beauty. The title of the chapbook in which I would publish them is sheerly optimistic.]