Shift

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.