Circadian

Rising is:

the knowledge
that I have
everything
I need;

missing an old friend,
so odd that it has been
three years;

the joy
and monotony
of each day;

anxiety at knowing I can’t do it all,
that I will always disappoint someone;
the cold crisp air outside;
learning to structure an
unstructured day;

too much want,
and a desire to release;

learning that not enjoying
does not make me a failure;

that I can be disappointed by those I love
and still love them;

Rising is
faith
taking us
gently into each new day.

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Circadian

Rising is:

the knowledge
that I have
everything
I need;

missing an old friend,
so odd that it has been
three years;

the joy
and monotony
of each day;

anxiety at knowing I can’t do it all,
that I will always disappoint someone;
the cold crisp air outside;
learning to structure an
unstructured day;

too much want,
and a desire to release;

learning that not enjoying
does not make me a failure;

that I can be disappointed by those I love
and still love them;

Rising is
faith
taking us
gently into each new day.

Drought

So many say that they
fear the impending drought.
They are so sure of its coming,
so certain,

but not me.

I know that we are people of the pines
and the rain will not forsake us.

And so I am not surprised
as the drops begin
to fall.

A Blessing

When I was young
a wise man told me
that I would be blessed
to see things as they
truly are.
 
It came upon me late in life
but is quite surely a blessing.
 
Of course futures are still
unknown, but I have found
myself less susceptible
to lies, particularly my own.
 
I have been undervalued,
as have we all, but there are
worse things, and I guess it has
been a motivator too, and anyway
no one is as perfect as
they want to be.
 
At a certain point I suppose
faith becomes ridiculous
but still there are nights
when I lie in bed
and pray in the dark
and quiet. Pray with
only the cats and the
coyotes awake to keep
me company.
 
I hope at least they hear me.
 
We all have a slight attachment
to suffering, which is only as
useful as we allow it to be.
 

winter days

Darkness comes so early
I don’t know what to make
of nights and days.
Time passes oddly.
Slowly and then suddenly.

I write in bed
under soft lamplight
instead of repotting
the plants in my
barefeet.

I sit at my work table
sawing over ink and copper
with a color so warm
that I almost warm
my hands by it.

Yesterday I paid a man
to stick needles in me.
I suppose we all have to
believe in something.

Brains are private places,
generally,
but sometimes I like to
invite someone
into mine.