I have, at last
become the turtle
who has been waiting,
so patiently,
for me to crawl 
    inside her shell,
    inside her skin.

I go about my days
in slow motion,
retreating within
on the slightest

At times
I bury myself
in the mud
and cannot find
the impetus
to make my way out.

Today, sitting
languid  in the sun,
I wonder;
is there any joy
for the turtle
in the warm sunlight?
For I cannot find
such simple pleasure.

© 1996 Judy Anne 

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