Maybe it just hasn't been the season for writing.

The day wakes early

And it tires later and later,

But my head has been clear.

And as I ponder,

I look at the way the clothes line

Pinches the sky ,

Thirty three segments

I count.

I take notes,

I look back upon them occasionally.

They are becoming less and less coherent,

More like stamps
On a piece of folded paper.