Poem: Overdoing It

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The Spirit is Willing
but the Hands won't work
So many ideas put on hold.


Playing scenarios in my head
black and white, like
a noir film forgotten.


Heating pads like oven mitts
I hold a steaming cup of chai
between frozen fingers


Pencils lay unused
the Muse cries out for attention
I tell Her to wait.


Ink runs dry
dust collects on the letters
that need to be answered.


Thoughts chase in circles
Needing to write, write, write
but fingers cry out for rest.


Tender Loving Care
and the knowledge that
the Body just knows what's best.


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