It is strange how books take on a life of their own - even 'deciding' what will be in them or not. Today I tried to figure out how to add in the new poems and they simply did not fit. It was like working a puzzle in which half the pieces were cut from cardboard and the rest cut from wood.
Also, since the poems came so easily the other day I felt I could pick up where I left off and continue. I could not sleep so decided to get up to get the rest of the poems I felt hovering over me. Nada! Nix! The well was dry.
Now I am feeling sleep-deprived with no joy in new work. I am a grumpy lump in a gray sweat suit. Need to get off on a walk to refill my tanks with tanka.

tearful lips

the bruised color of questions

in your eyes

where do the days lead to

when understanding is gone