This is a good prompt, for me.

I do not play.
I never grew up playing much—
learned discipline and work instead.

I have a psychology degree.
I know play is considered beneficial,
even essential, for productivity.
And still, I resist it.

I gave my own girls
everything they needed to play—
alone or together—
but I don’t recall playing with them myself.

Even the dog invites me.
Usually it provokes irritation more than joy.

Play with me!
Toss the stick!
Pretend you want it, then I run!

How fun is that?
Not fun for me.
It seems to require too much energy.

That said, I do play—
just not where it’s usually recognized.

I play in my mind.
I twist and turn words and ideas,
shape them into poetry or prose.
More these days than ever.

I allow myself all the time I want
to enter that magical, mystical
realm of thought.

No one restricts me.
No one urges me to get back to work.

Am I too cerebral?

Once, I made myself ride my bike
fifty miles a week.
It was fun—
once I crested that massive hill.
Lowest gear.
Lungs expanding, contracting.
Eyes flooded with brown and green,
the colors of the gulch.

I hiked, too—
rocky roads down to the ocean.

These days—
and I give myself latitude—
I’m simply not moved to action.

Instead, I watch rain sweep over the sea,
spill into the gardens.
I watch flowers drink deeply.
A mango tree sends out new green leaves,
tender at first,
then hardening into permanence
over time.

And maybe that’s what I’m doing.

Ideas forming.
Extending tendrils
into the field of possibility.
Some remain there,
deciding when—
and with whom—
they’ll share
yet another written offering.

Waiting for playtime ~ bj 2018