Sunrise like sunset,
guarded by a haze of longing,
depths of a childhood feared and missed
driving into a continuous painting:
falling elm leaves, a bounding squirrel,
crows fighting over an acorn,
seagulls next to the yellow shimmer of the Rogue.
Not too distant,
not like my younger years.
Out of my grasp, yes,
Out of my grasp.
What is yesterday but tomorrow's guilt?
The road winds to and fro almost randomly.
Inspiration rarely comes on a platter.
It isn't a feeling; it's hard work
offered day after day after day.
The Muse isn't inspiration, no matter what anyone says.
She wears coveralls, and is calloused and grumpy.
She doesn't visit you;
you must rouse her from her slumber
and send her to the construction site.
She'll fight you; and many times she'll not show up at all.
(But will still demand to be paid.)
You still need to work regardless.
Day after day after day.
You--you--are your own inspiration.
That's how it works.
That's how it goes.
What is tomorrow but yesterday's condemned building?
Maybe it's salvageable.
Maybe something new can come of it.
Knock it down!
Shore it up!
Heal the cracks in the foundation!
Or just bomb the fuckin' thing out of existence.
If you can.
If you must.
Morning meadow on the banks of the Rogue River, Oregon