It's been a long time since I woke up with that feeling that permeates every fiber of your being...that feeling of joyful anticipation about the day, the feeling that great things are going to surprise you.
Today the cool air blew in from outside and before the cares of yesterday could rise in my mind, there it was, the joy.
In every corner of my mind, in every crevice of my wrinkled hands.
And what rose from the soil of a morning like this?
A hustle bustle morning, glorious with "get your shoes" and enough food to pack lunches and a black eye on a small boy.
If I could capture the sounds of the Lego games and and "did you brush your teeth" and the smell of early morning babies, I would.
And I will huff it in my old age when the house is quiet and always clean.
If I could hold onto this feeling of my 13 year old wanting to talk to me, sitting here playing "remember when" and pointing to the artistry that is her soul that leaks out in the way she thinks, draws and writes, knowing her from infancy and seeing glimpses of her tomorrow...
I would hold it when my arms are too weak to hold anything else and my mind can't tell the difference between a pillow and a memory.
We don't know if this is a last day or one of many "last days". I know these minutes are fleeting and I don't
regret the soil of it, the hustle of it, or even the way it passes before my eyes like bubbles floating into space.
This morning I woke up.
Today the cool air blew in from outside and before the cares of yesterday could rise in my mind, there it was, the joy.
In every corner of my mind, in every crevice of my wrinkled hands.
And what rose from the soil of a morning like this?
A hustle bustle morning, glorious with "get your shoes" and enough food to pack lunches and a black eye on a small boy.
If I could capture the sounds of the Lego games and and "did you brush your teeth" and the smell of early morning babies, I would.
And I will huff it in my old age when the house is quiet and always clean.
If I could hold onto this feeling of my 13 year old wanting to talk to me, sitting here playing "remember when" and pointing to the artistry that is her soul that leaks out in the way she thinks, draws and writes, knowing her from infancy and seeing glimpses of her tomorrow...
I would hold it when my arms are too weak to hold anything else and my mind can't tell the difference between a pillow and a memory.
We don't know if this is a last day or one of many "last days". I know these minutes are fleeting and I don't
regret the soil of it, the hustle of it, or even the way it passes before my eyes like bubbles floating into space.
This morning I woke up.
Thank you for sharing this. You have a way of touching people's soul with your poems... I think its because you do not censor your own or try to hide it. I can't wait to see you published :)
ReplyDelete:) One day...thanks for that.
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