Perhaps it is a lack of sleep,
or a lack of travel, or imagination,
but you wake up colorless
in the middle of a technicolor world.
It will pass. Color always return.
It is the relentless nature of seasons,
and for you at times, they come
all in a day.
About this poem.
Not much sleep last night. Feeling flat. Old enough to know it passes. But writing is like everything in life. You do it whether you are feeling it or not. It’s how you keep the brain muscle working.
A nap in my future this afternoon.