I think it's time I get serious about writing again, although I'm not sure how I'm going to manage that since I'm still serious about fitness and intend to remain so, I still have two teenagers yet to raise and God knows that's serious business. And then there's that dead end job of mine, which is not that serious but it is time-consuming.
It seems to me that the first thing I need to do to get back into writing is to declutter my office and my hard drive. That may be an excuse to postpone writing, those things are sneaky, but it feels important. Here is a poem that I found amongst my Microsoft Word documents. It's by Samuel Hazo; I have no idea where I found it, but I can see why I kept it.

The Nearness That Is All
by Samuel Hazo

Love's what Shakespeare never
said by saying, "You have
bereft me of all words, lady."
Love is the man who siphoned
phlegm from his ill wife's throat
three times a day for seven
years.
Love's what the Arabs
mean when they bless those
with children: "May God keep them
for you."
Or why a mother
whispers to her suckling, "May you
bury me."
Love's how the ten-year
widow speaks of her buried
husband in the present tense.
Love lets the man with one leg
and seven children envy no man
living and none dead.
Love
leaves no one alone but, oh,
lonely, lonelier, loneliest
at midnight in another country.
Love is jealousy's mother
and father.
Love's how death
creates a different nearness
but kills nothing.
Love
makes lovers rise from each
loving wanting more.
Love
says impossibility's possible
always.
Love saddens glad
days for no bad reason.
Love gladdens sad days
for no good reason.
Love
mocks equivalence.
Love is.