The code is
I can’t control.
All I can control
is my pen on paper.
And I can’t even always
control that.
Have been creatively constipated
until now—
Now I am just writing.
I’m writing, writing, writing
like a car on a long drive.
My pen holding my hand
like my sister did
in World War II.
I survived Second World War,
cholera,
breast cancer,
a boulder falling
almost hurting me.
Now I’m struggling to survive
a pandemic.
It feels like
recovering from surgery—
long, boring, confining.
My world has turned to gray.
My calendar full of plans
invalid.
Again, my writing my breath
I find color and entertainment
in writing.
Just pop the cork
and poems flow from me
gush from me
tumbling
like a frisky mountain stream.