note from self

is the ache
in the pinned
shoulder or wrist?
or does it arise
from the depth
of her being?
does the accident
something asked?

days are altered
not popping
with juice—she
sits in her chair
dictates texts
emails, poems
notes to self
prompts, lists
visitors come
bring flowers
and food
happy delight

her plight
“why” doesn’t
work—no logic
this shift in life
it is—
it is what is
that is the answer

2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.

I welcome comments and discussion!

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