The day to come
1. I rest my finger on the morning minute and the day blooms out in front of me. Pockets of lost time, found joy, cloudy fear. In the vision I swim with the hourly dolphins. The growing light bathes my labyrinths of backward and forward pain. The vision fades.
2. The book has lines, the lines have numbers and spaces, the spaces hold words. A woman who knows me, loves me, has written a guide for my hand. The minutes wear marching boots and jungle whackers, the hours have spears. We crouch, my fingers and toes and I, poised for the unleashing whistle.
3. There will be daily bread. In this house it is made of oats and my body knows. This is what the day holds.
4. The lunch date, the phone call, the news flash have plans to twirl me from corner to corner. In my swirly skirt I follow, arms outstretched to catch and be caught, pushing the future fear away.
5. The house breathes. Yesterday's hibiscus blossom does not know it will be closing while today's bloom unwraps itself. Across the room, without my glasses, to me right now they are both just a deep red blur. In the basement the floods that the limestone walls have welcomed in will be slowly drying today. In the kitchen the counter will fill with the light, striped through the wooden slats. I will live in this house.
6. From east to west and up to down the gray comes washing out of the sky, walks are canceled, weather apps update furiously, the stalwart upright trees bow down, bend down, whip left and right. Above the empty street the brave green arching fingers dance.
7. From nowhere a strange alternate life throws a bolt across my quietness. Words I never learned paint scenes towards which I run.
8. A shadow falls.
9. I will catch this one minute that does not tick, has no seconds, will not end. I will live in this moment that does not hurt. I am an endless looping hula-hoop, I am the creaking floor, my own roof, I am the chair that rocks. The future cannot kill me. It will never come.
10. There is no day without night. There is no tomorrow without yesterday. There is no mulch without death, no earth to walk on without ancestors laying down their cloaks, no vision without blindness. There is no truth without paradox. I tiptoe in my dark waiting.
11. A poem, unlooked for, unwanted, will end a friendship.
12. The clock will not be silenced. Its allies hide and wait. The clock loudens, deafens, shines and blinds. The clock will defeat me, the clock will save me, I must up and away to meet it, embrace it, love what it tells me to love.
13. The day blooms. I let myself fall, breathe, float, eat. I have no borders: I am the day, I am the clock, I am the rain. I am the deadlines, I am the wet gray storming air.