to want again

To Want Again



Funny how it
desists flowing for excruciating periods,
and depression is then something,
an awful real thing.

But then some conspiracy of things,
like a book,
or a new coffeeshop
or the vision of a lady
with legs bare in the harsh cold of near winter
literally dragging two huffy beagles down the street
outside said coffeeshop,
or…like a book,
strike you flat on the head.
And not only can you write again,
but precluding this,
you want to write again
and you want oh so very much
to read again, to read more and more.

But quite simply,
You want again,
For want is of the heart,
And your heart had been closed –
To friends, to self, to the hope of ever finding love again,
And not least of all to poetry.
And now you want, just want, not a thing
or a circumstance, but wanting like the impetus
that rises us from bed in the morning, from the womb.
Maybe you just want to sit and give thanks.