It’s hard, not doing

An idea that crept in, then

Grew big with talk and plans

and study,

has gone small again.

What’s going on in there,

I wonder.

It’s hard, not doing.

I entertain myself,

Imagine the unimaginably small

Bits and strands moving and

Pulsing and twining together.

Doing.

She rests.

On the couch, her bed

the rocking chair, the floor,

Unusually quiet,

or is she?

Is she well,

What’s going on?

She lifts her head and meets my eyes.

I make up things

She might be saying.

She leaps up on my bed,

and misses, falling awkwardly

I fear

To lose that, which

may not even exist,

She must not leap anymore.

Perhaps I worry

Too much.

She eats.

Robust.

Runs to the door for walks

But doesn’t she tire more quickly?

Time grows and shrinks

Long moments drip,

and pool,

like raindrops on the leaves that hold

then tip,

Sluicing them to the ground.

What’s going on,

I wonder.

She lifts her head to look at me
Then drops it back down,

again.

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