I found myself crying at the end
of a movie about writing poetry,
and promised to write more poems.
I’ve felt small, unable to address
the fear and artifice and wonder
that adds up in frequently unequal
measure to make a life. The cat
sits on my lap as my family sleeps.
Fingers twined in her fur, I wonder
about sleep and dreams and being
awake at this time in human history.
I’m still thinking about the movie,
and figure so long as I’m here
I should document the hell out of it.
So I start with this February morning:
coffee, cat, a promise to write poems.

Sharing in the Imaginary Garden on The Tuesday Platform.