a wild poem

lent poem #3

the day has not yet
peeked over the horizon.
the children sleep.
his truck has quietly
drifted from the driveway.
i’ve been up for hours
scheming already
about things that seem
important:
planning that next event,
getting documents signed,
a very ambitious book proposal.

and then this poem said
stop
listen to the cars and the kitchen timer,
that one unbelievably loud bird,
the hoarse wind.
this poem
whispered a story about the children
when they were smaller
and i used to watch them nap
full of gratitude for every small breath.
this poem
cancelled my plans for the day:
you will find me
at that little cafe on stockton
drinking my third latte
and drawing on napkins.
we’re not getting anywhere.
not you, not me, not the rich
in their castles.
today i’m going to recklessly
call people just to say
i love you
even if it’s awkward,
even if i should have another
agenda.
the possibilities
are so much greater
than the volume of my inbox.
the children are still
resting their heads on their forearms
and my breakfast is getting cold
because this poem
is rioting all over the page
ripping holes in the paper
just to say
stop.
this poem draws my eyes
to the lightening sky
reminding me that
just
this
instant
everything changed.