![A distressed vintage-style digital collage on aged paper covered in faint printed and handwritten text, framed by a deep red floral border. Dominating the upper left is a large woodcut sun with a human face, its eyes shut, colored gold across the top and blood-red across the bottom, with old cursive verse showing through it. At upper right, delicate antique engravings depict small figures bound and broken on a wheel and on crosses — medieval torture scenes rendered almost daintily. At lower right sits a winged stone gargoyle or fallen angel, chin propped on one hand in a brooding, weary pose. At lower left, a bundle of wheat sheaves and a sprig of holly with berries. Along the bottom edge, in large bold black stencil capitals: "IT COULD BE WORSE." [alt txt by Claude, who cannot see, for others who cannot see]](https://sbpoet.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/08/12157928004_36c9d7e096_k.jpg)
We have encountered a bit of an obstacle, the kind that line up on the road of aging. And as we often do on that road, we keep going, though perhaps not as quickly nor as gymnastically as we did on the younger roads.
Oh those trails of youth, recalled with some nostalgia, some regret, and some joy.
This does mean, however, that my writing may be limping along for awhile. It may take some time to get back to it, and some (currently scarce) energy to keep it as interesting, as challenging, and as honest as I would like.
On the other hand, just this morning I read that merely thinking about new experiences is enough to enhance creativity. I am about to have a bunch of new experiences.
I do have a piece I’ve been working on that I hope to post soon. After that, I hope you will be patient and return when I do.
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