I feel stalled
and confounded.
Snow
not yet fallen
chills me and
gets in my way.
I do not want to slow down,
let go,
wait.
Yet I must,
either restlessly
or willingly.
Nothing seems fixed.
Ambiguous word:
repaired
or stuck in place.
Would the repair be
to let it flow?
Molasses in winter.
Image: “Saturday pre-dawn,” by Mike Shell (3//12/2022)
