The blinds keep out the light of midmorning:
The yellow sun outside is smiling,
But I am oblivious to its felicity.
I work inside a narrow space
That’s full of books and colored pens.
The artificial light’s my calibrated sun:
Neither dim nor bright – just right.
A few words scribbled on my pad –
The fruit of long reflection.
A sigh escapes from me. How dismal
is the progress – the wrong word!
My eyes stare at my blank achievement;
The sorry etchings do not count.
I tear the paper free and crumple it
And open up the blinds.
Copyright Dennis Cortes 2021