The day begins and I twitch to Do.
I wish those whips that flay me on
Would relax their leather
And be gone.
Let me sink my toes into the sand of the morning
My ankles tickled by the gentle incoming tide.
I look outside.
The swing set steams in the cold air
Like a fire newly extinguished.
The crocus trumpets sing their delight to have escaped the earth.
Tufts of green
Like sleeping baby hedgehogs
Line the path.
An old man walks a puppy.
The primroses impossibly yellow.
And I decide.
I am not at home today to anyone.
I let myself be and with just me I am home, alone.
And the dust can settle.
The washing can wait because the snowdrops must be admired.
It is only polite.
They’ve taken great pains to creep up under my window.
You can almost hear them yawn and stretch.
This day forgives.
And celebrates the nothing.
The morning thaws.
I pause and scold my mind into stillness.
One moment of blissful attention.
My lungs rejoice as I notice their tireless pumping.
The toast forms a golden puddle on the plate.
Butter buttresses me in its bright river.
Mellifluous ooze squeezes the snooze out of me.
There are sapphires of peace to be found in the dunghill of doing.
Shed the “musts” and “shoulds” like crumbs from an old coat.
Summon up the silence, deep from within.