it is not the sleeping
i try to avoid, but the waking
into another day of starting over
when it seems i just finished
this one –
i want to enjoy its conclusion
a little longer, one more hour
of quiet accomplishment
before the alarm
even the optometrist today
is appalled by my lack of vision
drinking one last cup of morning
tea, still not ready for
this day i knew would come
the storm started up early
this morning, the skyrise sickly
green and moaning, the dogs
barking at strangers they think
are tapping at the window
every time he lies down on the autumn leaves
to stretch his golden body i try
to take a picture and he moves towards me with no
comprehension of the importance
of preserving such moments
i tried desperately to collect what i could in all my mixing bowls and pans, opened
the bathtub faucet and watched the stream weaken while the water outside
from the busted pipe bubbled up under the frontyard grass and lapped a course
down the driveway into the street. flowing away from my house, from the bathtub,
from all my efforts to contain it, from me.
each time i move to do
even the most mundane of daily
duties they leap expectantly up
as if what
is about to occur
is the most wondrous moment
I’ve ever created
returning
i am so thankful
for your open door, although i insisted
getting in through the window.
i am sorry
it is broken; sorry
i fell through clumsily only to find you
waiting inside so porcelain
and calm; holding out to me
a warm cup of tea.
i am sorry i still believe
that a stubborn December
can wind us down, that i am not faithful
in the firm foundation that has held
up all these years.
oh, and i thank you
for the tea.
on my latest journey
i did not pick
anything out for you –
there was nothing
worth carrying home.
mareymercy. 