Another Day
It should be difficult,
always difficult, rising
from bed each morning,
against gravity, against
always difficult, rising
from bed each morning,
against gravity, against
dreams, which weigh
like the forgotten names
of remembered faces.
But some days it’s
like the forgotten names
of remembered faces.
But some days it’s
easy, nothing, to rise,
to feed, to work, to
commit the small graces
that add up to love,
to feed, to work, to
commit the small graces
that add up to love,
to family, to memory,
finally to life, or
what one would choose
to remember of it, not
finally to life, or
what one would choose
to remember of it, not
those other leaden
mornings when sleep
is so far preferable
to pulling over one’s
mornings when sleep
is so far preferable
to pulling over one’s
head the wet shirt
of one’s identity again,
the self one had been
honing or fleeing
of one’s identity again,
the self one had been
honing or fleeing
all these years,
one’s fine, blessed
self, one’s only,
which another day fills.
one’s fine, blessed
self, one’s only,
which another day fills.
Not sure why my sleep has been so wonky this week~sure that the roofers bashing about (yes, still) don't help. A little verklempt today as it's the two year mark of losing Bogart. I'm almost ready to get a new pet, but none of the places I'm looking allow pets. Maybe next year~I'll get a real job and a real place to live.
Christmas, 2012~snuggled on our new blanket.
The wet shirt of one's identity -- eeeeew. My flesh crawls at the very thought - and that's a lovely and visceral imagery of the self as something rejected some days. Ugh.
ReplyDeleteSmall graces - today you're not starting a job you're not sure you'll love in a claustrophobic, tiny community which doesn't allow candles. The pet and the place will come... possibly sooner than you think.
The candles are burning even as I type!
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