it promises nothing of absent joy I crave,
I sit as usual naked before the keys
shawl-wrapped and blinking
through the usual steam from a mug of tea.
Last night I woke at 4am to rumbles
of thunder miles southwest, occasional strobe
of nearer lightning, got up in the chill
to shut down and unplug computers,
wandered the house dark and silent,
fell back asleep in my chair.
Some blankets need washing, others
are finally warm enough to forget.
Cold dim dark outside this morning still
although the pear tree blooms white,
remarking on the early tulips, their glare,
profligate willingness to expire in color.
Maybe that's the source of love, in the garden.
I don't love what promises to be another noon
not of my own bidding, which would prefer to laze.
Now that people think I'm well, they've begun
their incessant asking of favors. In this world
no one wants to pay the piper anymore.
If your kid could can do it just as well, they ask,
why pay someone whose experience
whose acquired skills means they charge. So I am
tasked to do free favors that sit on my plate till
I damn well feel like it. This morning I don't.
Urgencies and urgencies, which more compelling,
that deadline you dawdled, or this tree
deciding to explode in pink and white?
You choose. I need my tea to clear my eyes.
It's so easy to distract yourself by taking care
of everyone else. Actually that's almost rewarding,
in a way. Although you still end up needing
to finish your own list of chores, rebuilding that wall
that fell over in the winter, spring planting,
a book to read, a book to write. Electric life
has made my days all the more compelled to juggle.
Objects bite back when devices designed to save labor
end up demanding more. Where's the efficiency
in obsession? I resist my own weak ends,
still they force me to a slower calmer pace.
I don't know when I'll ever get home. It seems
to recede infinitely. Did the Taoist sage have
an aphorism about this? Just go with the flow.
Normal speech for unusual unspoken occasions.
There's a paradox where I can moor my raft.
A cool pond reflects mist and willow sentinels.
It does seem silly, when you bend over then fall
because your center of gravity is gone. Tying shoes
has become a task I want to do before
putting pants on. Naked in my sneakers if
I had a choice for constitutions. I mean everything.
Water spheres droop from the edges of spruce.
It's too gloomy to get dressed. Fire maples are
leafing out, buds still nearly the color of young rice.
I suppose it's spring. i didn't have enough of winter.