Day 7 noticing the body 

my brain says “Poem!”
but words are stubborn,
hiding while fingers mindlessly
scratch an ankle too dry
from winter’s arid air.
my focus becomes small,
this patch of skin, one ankle.
if I had a microscope, I might
watch layer by layer as dryness
flaked into the air. A circle
of dust motes twirl and sway
above the grate in the floor
borne on the hot, dry breath
of furnace two floors below.
outside the moment, ears attune
to the low hum of humidifier
two rooms away, as it spills moisture
that never reaches thirsty skin.
Outside January’s warm enough
to melt the snow that fell three days ago,
sun-sharp and bright as a June day and
warm, if you stand out of the wind.

The sixth challenge: to find peace and calm through writing.  I thought about when the calmness comes, and I realize that when poems are waiting to be born, there is brainstorm. After the poem is committed to the page, that’s when, for me, there is a momentary (or perhaps longer!) peaceful time, until the next small stone clamours for attention.

a small grey lamp
casts its circle of light
where scribbles argue
demanding space on pages
of white poems. blue fonts
will calm them, ellipses curtain storm
as letters fall onto paper, inner peace returns

indigo glass mug
its shadows
ringed in blue
cast a blue demi-moon
flat against white page
words yearn to touch its face.

—cas

http://www.writingourwayhome.com/p/river-jan-12.html

my brother hunches
forward over keyboard
glasses precariously perched,
he peers over them
intent, intense, his brow
furrows in concentration
his fingers hunt & peck.
he will send a letter out
into the world,
his own gesture
of occupy.
of howl.

—cas