I wind my dad’s watch every morning.  It was running five minutes fast since I returned from recording sessions, alerting me to slow down. Wanting to share lots of news, seemingly too soon.  The true meaning of events unclear while in their midst.

Questioning my path forward, thinking that maybe there’s a new format, two years of blogging that has morphed into 100 word stories too restrictive, interlacing a haiku from my books too confining, every two weeks too rigid a schedule.

This story is two weeks late.

My dad’s watch is on time.

WINDING

Imagination
Wanderlust exposing nerve
Tenderness binding.