Ordinary World?

I'm laying quietly and simply among the covers on this random January day. It's warm and a breeze is blowing through the open window. I've barely been out of bed today; the incentive isn't there. The pain from my recent hip surgery still plagues me and my recent bout of pneumonia has done nothing to encourage my movement. So I simply lay among the covers and consider my life over these last months and attempt to place a template of perspective on it. My body needs reminding that my life is not over and that healing is actually coming. But in the darkness of winter it is difficult to tell yourself such things and actually believe them. The heart has taken hold of a much sorrier story, that of my own slow and painful demise. It's a beautiful story but it is not mine. I need to stand up and use the leg that has become so troublesome. The time of my convalescence is nearing the end and while I am relieved at the thought of returning to life as I know it, I will be sad to leave this womb-like state for all the comfort it has offered; my fuzzy, wuzzy mother-bed.
My body knows no balance; I will have to teach it discipline again. It can't be either all work or all rest. It has to be a gradual balance of both, but I don't yet know my limits and being too much of either extreme frightens me. It's amazing how the body can heal so much more quickly from disease than the mind. If my mind was willing, I'm sure I could push this hip forward today to accomplish something, if not great, at least useful. But the mind has yet to agree to such a bargain and I'm afraid that until the two strike a deal, this is where I shall lay.

A Child's Mess with Words...or Poems...Something

"Words...
Spinning round my head
Other thoughts have fled
Twirling round with ease
Like a light spring breeze
Words....
Shiny like brass
Coming out my ass..."

"This is supposed to be a children's poem," she rudely interrupts.

"I know."

Blank stare.

"I mean. No. I know. Yes it was just a test."

She isn't amused.

A heavy sigh, she signals again:

"Please, please try to focus..."

"This is not a very good children's poem,"  I smile.

"You're not funny."

Ouch.