I write myself notes, scrap paper reminders without rhyme
make math worksheets, clean rogue cracked egg
ordinary, tedious, annoying.
Does the sun ever struggle to rise, I wonder?
Everything sad feels true.
Though what can I do with breath in the morning
but give thanks
and be sure all the mittens are dry.
A little gratitude in the shape of her shadow
and still so many figuring outs.
A pandemic is a particularly complicated time to be a person.
What good is a day without noticing
the commonplace and the miraculous?
Rushed and sloppy and irritated and alive
more interesting than perfect.
Living inside question marks, the unending togetherness
there is power in knowing what we don't know
the small particulars, turning stones.
The widespread boredom, the ubiquitous snack requests
ordinary, tedious, divine.
1 comment:
Does "0 Chime In" mean that I am the first to read this amazing post? I am about to print out my screenshot so that I can put your poem where it will remind me to give thanks and seek the divine. Thank you.
Post a Comment