i want to write, but i dont know what about. i thought about the spring. i thought about our new house on the lake. i thought about some memories i could unearth. but nothing appeals so much as nothing. i can look out my window and see a thousand things worth describing. i can look in my head and unravel a huge spool of poetry. yet, again, nothing avails itself to any passion. nothing lends itself to my fingers, so i continue to totter away. tedium, i suppose. nothing monumental has happened yet this morning. nothing worth taking up any reader's time. a dogwood tree, a sparrow, a pile of bills, the blinking light on the answering machine. i can find no facet in any of it.