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.
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