There was something steeping in my pot this morning. Something I was going to write or say or do but it seemingly evaporated in the series of small talk and now I'm not sure where I set it down. Was it a set of keys? Or maybe my glasses. That's it, I was missing my glasses that helped me see how specific it was.

It was perfectly spelled out in neat rows that let you see how great my idea was. It wasn't convoluted in a series of clauses, set aside and defined until you couldn't remember the meat. It had sharks teeth and the smell of a pipe smoked by the side of the crick. Not the creek, that's the wrong sound. It tastes wrong in my mouth. Not like cinnamon candy, stolen from a bowl I wasn't invited to touch.

Or the deep comfort of swirling snow, knit burgundy mittens holding a paper cup of coffee and breathing in all that steam while the snips of cold melt on my glasses. Was that why I couldn't see what I was going to write about? Was it the steam or was it the glasses? Was it just that I was so disorganized that I forgot it? Or maybe that the thing wasn't a thing you could see at all but only smell and sense needs waiting.

I'll wait. It will come back.