Day 461: Recuperation

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∴

i have no poetry for this gladness.

only the telling of the day
as it is:

i am half-lucid from pain
and the meds that take it away.
i am elevated from the waist up
and buried above the neck in sleep.

i rise for 30 minutes at a time
to water flowers
and make sure the growing things
are fed,

then fall back into hazes on the couch,
like lovers’ embraces that stop time.

i imagine being a pearl,
held
by one who is glad
to hold me –
who was made to hold me –
and in whose arms
i truly rest.

i can overhear
the best sounds;
the ones that are more healing to the soul
than any pill could be:

the kitchen table,
moving legs,
clacking wood to wood,
and the clink of coffee cups,
that rest and launch from the counter,
until cooled or empty.

i hear my parents –
the ones who i came through –
talking about the times
that Were

interrupted by my children –
the ones who came through me –
who can’t stop erupting
over the times that Will be.

possibility,
as seen by the young,
is loud…

 

it wakes me up,

sometimes.

∴

 

 

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