Back to my old shenanigans in Dreamland—running 7 miles instead of just lounging in the Sun and writing.  It seems I’ll do anything to avoid the chore of writing.  There is one redeeming aspect to the running, however, and it is this: I often end up writing poetry in Dreamland after 7 mile runs.  The implication isn’t that I’m about to write anything of consequence now.  But let me close my eyes, relax in the sunshine for a few moments, and drift away…

With eyes closed, I was sunning,

poetically inspired,

and about to stumble

upon some dream

-of-consciousness imagery

lamenting the disappearance of my lover

and her inexplicable non-fulfillment

of a promise of beatifying attentions,

when a bee buzzed into my ear
and I, startled, but without fear

reached instinctively

for the trespassing bumbler,

got it to crawl onto my hand

and then slung it swiftly away,

by chance, crashing

into the black granite obelisk

I had been lay-leaning against.

The bee lay broken,

in ruins,

smashed (kind of like the golden promise).

Not exactly the imagery, however, I’d ever use

to lament  (in a poem) a lover’s blues.

So there you have it.  Seven miles and a poem.
Not a bad routine as far as routines go.