Askew

I try my hand but it tires me

I used to feel this urgency
To fill the pages of countless notebooks
Quickly, within a matter of weeks
To record the actions of my life
For analysis, memoriam
Or simply evidence

With words I wove a tapestry
Which I would later examine
To see God’s plan in the fibers
To observe the patterns threaded throughout
In hopes that they would point me toward
The next spool, the brighter skein

But words have begun to fail me

Slowly, throughout the past year
I have realized
I have less to say

My expressions are no longer accurate
I could record each day’s activities
As I have done before
But the descriptions would now be shadows

Would you rather have bare, white walls
Or many pictures, askew?

Would you still hang images
If your only option would be to sit
Viewing them on slant, always awry?

Perhaps it is not the words that are vexation
Only my expectations of them

Could I better write
If I give grace to my utterances,
If I permit them to perch
Without commanding them to sing?

Even this verse is comprised of analysis
An exercise in scrutiny

So now, I shall set my pen
Just slightly off center
Not quite parallel to the grain of the wood on this table
Leave my shoes upturned by the front door

And step barefoot upon the warm pavement
To experience the tapestry
I was once content to record