Wrote this little piece from a moment still & stretching, loved & lovely, mourned & mending. Each of the good days I have lately, the minutes or hours where my fears & my anxieties quiet in their flapping around my head, feels earned. What I’m learning is there are a million ways to spell love & the first one is always morning.
It’s been a hard season, shipwrecked & aching, & still I smell the clouds & weather the storms & feel loudly, messily, truly. Here’s a poem originally in Tenderness Lit—a companion of sorts to “Lovesong to Vernal Equinox, Standard Time”—about circadian rhythms, about the named & the nameless, about sleepy kitchens, needy cats, movements into hope. I’ve been doing a lot of hurting. I think this softness is warranted, or at least within reach. I’m trying to remind myself always of beginning: all toaster waffles & rose-pink skies.
About This Morning
There are hours left, you say. Hours—
plenty of time for coffee, doctors, for grocery
stores. Plenty of time for baptism.
Outside the window, birds sing, even though
life is unfair & everyone is going to die.
Inside this room, it smells like toaster waffles.
Your cat walks up to me, butts her head
against my hands. I wonder if naming
an animal is a form of violence.
Hey, you say. You’re thinking too much again.
I say: how can you tell? & you gesture to
the cat, say: you’re not petting her.
I pet your cat. You hum under your breath. I think:
the absence of a name is, too, an act of cruelty.
I look at the window at the birds. In my head, I
name one Worship & another Warship. I name
the tree they’re perched on Futureless Language.
I name the squirrel beneath Healing Out Loud.
The waffles are ready, you say.
There’s plenty of time to eat them, I tell you.
Outside, the wind talks right at us.
Living things continue to live, rose pink & fully
unastonished by how much of this world
sees them completely.