Once again I am at my little writing desk
that belonged to my grandmother,
originally used for a sewing table,
asking the wisps of air that dance before me.

Only, questions come slower than they
did just the day before.  Is it the pollen
that befuddles?  Age?  Or the moon not
being in proper formation with the stars?

Whatever question is asked, perhaps
the answer lies in the yellow butterweed
I see on the forest floor across
the valley from where I sit and wonder.