poem for Neptune, for Mama

oh God! oh God! oh God! oh God!
Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!
your death. your smile.
finally. finally.

When they closed you in a bag,
I almost crumbled.
my knees, my legs.

wash me away
wash me away
wash me away
wash me away

— January 11, 2026 (from a journal)

moving between what used to interest me, to trying to move, to trying to do something, to do to do to do, anything anything, to being still. to cleaning a tiny section of my little house. sweeping. pulling hair, lint, dust. to deciding which books i am giving away to the little free library behind the post office. to jogging in place. to singing. to dancing silly silly silly dances. to looking at unfinished paintings and saying, “I know what I’m going to do,” and not doing it.

it’s 14ºf / feels like 6º

it’s noon and i am ready to go back to bed. i won’t. i might. i won’t. i might.

i won’t. the sun is too important. and there is music.

February 1, 2026
Leo Full Moon
Hudson Valley, NY

image: mama © holly troy 2024