The best gift – poem

If I had my way                                                                                       I’d be getting up around 10                                                                         with no alarm clock having drifted awake
resurfaced, like a deep-sea diver.                                      

But instead I’ve pulled myself up                                                                                 (if not out)                                                                                                                       of bed sitting here,                                                                                        writing to clear my head                                                                           to return me to the world of words,                                                                     of thought, of physicality                                                                           and away from the dreams that seem                                                              so real.
Maybe that is why I write                                                        after all                                                                                                                              not just in the morning                                                                         not just in the mode of poems                                                                                but everything, all the time.

Putting pen to paper,                                                             pulling words down                                                              from the air and making them sit                                                                         and stay like dogs doing tricks                                                                               is how I wake up                                                                                                  every moment                                                                                            is how I come back                                                                                       into the present,                                                                                             the best gift of all.

Morning walk or not – poem

In this morning

this cold morning

the sky touched with the pink the color of rose petals,

of Magnolia blossoms just beginning

I wonder how long it will be

until the sun is awake before quarter till seven

the sky aglow with the sure quiet joy

of awakening.



Because until then

I will wonder how I could possibly have dragged myself out of bed

with time enough to go for a walk

before work,

even on a Saturday

those many months ago,

or so my journal says.



Because right now,

I can’t even imagine getting out of bed

at all

it is so cold and cave-like.

And so I sit here

and write a poem

instead.

And I think maybe this is a kind of walk,

too. Or maybe

I am fooling myself,

again.