I don't know what it is

But something, or things, make(s) me reluctant to write on the blog.

Perhaps I dug my head in too far writing my (still forthcoming, promise) essay.

Or perhaps it's because the weather has been so terrific.

Or that my mom is visiting this weekend.

Or that I have a garden with a table, and no laptop anymore, which actually is something of a relief.

Or that I am still busy nosing about in my new environment, reacquainting myself with how everything occurs at a slower pace.

Or that I am spending 8 hours a week at the gym.

Or that I am working a few more hours at my freelance job than before.

Or that I am daydreaming or reading on my commute, but have been indulging in fiction. And nonliterary (illiterate) magazines. (I will update the Good Books list soon.)

Or that I have been cooking with new vegetables. (Swiss chard rolls perfected, thank you.) Anticipating my weekly box, which maybe I will blog as an adventure, beginning later this month when the farm is open for biz.

Or that I have lost, momentarily one hopes, whatever portion of my excitement (for poetry) was formerly uncontainable.

I know that's not it.

But sometimes the light from these windows (we open and close them, stack them up and windowshade them) is a wan light, and not warm, and it makes me want to leave the room.

Also, there's this book I'm supposed to be finishing. And a chap I've not even begun.

Hey look! I wrote a post.