And without you my output has been prolific,
scribbling till the ink blots stop making stanzas, but rather
mountains, winding away- lost in the valleys.
Mists of Glendaloch,
standing frigid in the lake till the birds made nests of the curls of my hair.
Wanderer and speaker aloud, running my hands over pages like fingers
play with notes and chords.
Guesswork mixed with assumed intonation.
In the hope that given time, I might stumble
across some clever set of words
that takes me home to you,
and undoes the curse that keeps my manuscripts piling up.
Like dust in the mansion,
where footprints appear suddenly,
on the untrodden floor
where there can be none.