For When You're Sick With Everything

A poem for nothing.

Lone Bloom in D.C., 2023. Salomé.

Lately I’m nauseous with dissatisfaction,

sick with desire for all that I’m not.

A productivity podcast plays over the song of spring birds

and deadlines bind the day.

Seasons change but my dissatisfaction stays.

Dates with the ghost of who I could be

crowd everyone else out of my calendar.

Wine mom words like gratitude and peace

roll off me like dew falls from leaves.

I remember one thing from 1st-grade botany:

nourishment is gained in ways you can’t see.

Days, weeks, and seasons go by

each with my eyes seeking their wiser futures.

Too long spent in times not yet arrived,

renders the present harder to find.

Extreme Bloom, 2023. Salomé.

Ceaseless seeking eventually reveals a solution: