What better way to break one's blog silence than by participating in this year's Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading?
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--
maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,
dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,
and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning
from Sailing Alone Around the Room
Mind you at the moment, the idea of throwing off light covers and touching my feet to the floor isn't all that appealing since it's 14 degrees out and my furnace is struggling to keep the house at 62. But besides appreciating the notion of a fresh new day and of a typewriter and atlas awaiting their adventure, the poem reminds me of summer mornings at my grandparents' house. I'd come downstairs to the smell of toasted English muffins and familiar NPR voices coming from the small radio on the breakfast table. Even within the framework of my teenage angst, I loved the momentary feeling of safety and comfort and continuity that those mornings gave me.
Happy Groundhog Day.