Epiphany

I sit
and my mind goes round and round
and around
a thought
that dissolves into other thoughts
and falls in slow motion
into a dream.

I am waiting.
For what?
For energy?
Or the muse?
A revelation?
For resignation?
Or guilt?
Or panic?

Anything to move me
from this chair
to across the room
to my table to the pieces
that wait under shrouds of plastic
that I work on at such a glacial pace
that when they are finally
finished,
I wonder at how they got there
and look at my hands
and at my mind
in disbelief
that they could have
played a part
in this birth.

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