Yesterday retreated into night
bringing a new morn
with possibilities abound -
but where to begin?

I stayed home the previous,
opportunities for interaction deserted
for a day to myself,
hidden under comforter
three pillows,
modus operandi
for sufficient rest:
lazy day where no metaphor
alliteration, onomatopoeia
struggled for expression
though countless efforts
spilled onto parchment
the ink still wet with abandonment..

I wonder why the muse
did not spark her grace
failing to inspire ambition to produce
even witty haiku of some sort.
She is so fickle, so full of mischief
like an imp who pinches
your toes unseen..

As I write this, I am aware
of drab imperfections -
filler words, certain tightening of phrase
here, there, everywhere -
but this is today’s condition
and to scribe anything,
something  magnificent,
is painful, fatigue mixed with anxiety
another chance to unveil
Aphrodite's robe -
as I drown in yellows and blues
settle for celadons.

It is what it is,
time for me to take a nap
dream of Pericles
see if he will build the Acropolis,
possibly bequeath me
some of his golden treasures.