Bottom line up front:
There are better ways
to start the day, some
more so than others.
One is by slugging
the clock, uncaring
of mirrors, windows,
preserved memories,
and good dreams you
had just last night,
already forgotten in
the rage your morning.
Another is to wake
gently to the rustling
of your heart, deeply
knowing others awake
alongside you: spouse,
lover, or perhaps warm
furred terriers or tabbies
requesting a beloved
early ritual. Spring’s
kiss of hefty, healthy
greens, practically
bursting through things
manmade and stupid,
like unnatural sleep
and not enough time
in a day. Too many
tasks assigned
simultaneously, as
opposed to cooing
of mourning doves
and the astonishing
wingspan of great
blue heron. Getting
to conclusion, drawing
a crooked line in sand,
perfect synergy of wave
with shore, saltwater
erasing all you think
was ever important:
you are not bespoke
to the digital machine
you yourself set in
the darkness. Rather
you can rise, quiet
blanketed around
you. Make your way to
the door. Then open
it to let the dog out,
or perhaps in, hints
of tea roses, pink,
and beginning their
blooms. Start these
critical hours all over,
fresh in conviction
that you now hear
traffic’s vagrancy off
in delicious distance,
barely audible. Make
your way back to your
yard of sycamore, of
purple rhododendron,
glorious in their height,
and nodding—a final
understanding you are
free, and need never go
so far from home again.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 23, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024