I’m making slow progress on the book I’m reading, so no review today. I’m not sure if the book is long, or if I’m just reading it slowly (a disorientation sometimes found in reading e-books). There’s this strange sense that, though I’m interested in the story, I’m not making very rapid progress with it.

I wrote a poem. As I’ve said before, I don’t consider myself a very good poet (and this one was written off the cuff). But I think it’s obscure enough to challenge the reader.

And some seed fell
On a gloomy place.
O’ershadowed by 
The cliff’s hard face.
The roots reached down,
The ground was dry,
And looming rock
Warped out the sky. 
That plant no flower
Would ever know
And on the breeze
No seed-stuff blow.
A little drink
The dew might give,
And sunlight blink
Enough to live.