if we are going to
write about joy

then i suppose we
must also write
about what
gets in the way

or rather,
how we block
joy

the sun is bright,
streaming

i sit here, inside,
hiding

i only want to:
eat chocolate
watch tv
sit on the couch

i do not want to:
rake
play in the leaves
put on shoes
dig up my weeds
dig up my neighbour’s weeds
go for a walk
paint a chicken coop
drum with sticks
laugh

there is a massive wasp
inside with me,
dying.
it keeps smashing into the window
sluggish
still trying to get
outside to the light

i resist so much

the things that may bring me joy
or health or peace or reprieve.

things like:
meditating
walking
playing
eating a strawberry
lying in the grass
praying
hands in dirt
sunshine on face

instead i:
wallow
stare
type
make another coffee
warm up leftover pancakes

i want to say that this
is grief

but, it may just be laziness

stubbornness

“i should be over this by now”

past these hormones,
beyond the new moon.

i should be productive.

but, here i sit,
and write poetry,
at least.

but poetry is not production.

can i lean into
un-production?

can i put a hand on my heart
and ask it what it needs?

can i write to love?

(all the things you would suggest, i know)

or will i sit here,
finding shadows

resisting the beckoning light?

(a cloud just came,
phew, that feels much
more familiar)