Today
I dusted off my writings,
walked through decades
of thought,
broken hearts,
emotions plus and minus.

Today
I gathered observations,
some of my best wonderings
from wanderings.

Bemused,
I smiled and grimaced
at both the genius
and the foolish silliness
that my fingers
had pounded or caressed
out of a dozen keyboards.

Mostly,
I question
not what I wrote,
nor that I wrote,
but what happened?
Why have I —
my fingers,
my mind,
my soul,
my heart —
gone
cold and silent?

This question perplexes me,
yet does not need to be answered.
The why
is not as important
as the turning from it,
the change,
the regeneration
of the creative flame.
The moving on.

The how?
I’m doing it now.