poem #50

It is up to me
to notice the apex of the sky
stretched thin to indigo,
a scrim against the infinity of space.
It is up to me
to seize the frosty gusts of winter
before they puff into spring.
Black coffee, like the pre-dawn sky
poured into a cup,
oatmeal with cinnamon and dried blueberries,
cauliflower soup in a thermos for lunch;
my feet repeat the path to my office,
the city grudgingly wakes up,
the sun insistent.
I watercooler chat,
station myself at my desk:
pencil, paper, monitors, keyboard, calculator.
There’s a routine to the work week;
it’s up to me
to sculpt each moment,
to savor the ticking, not the clock.
Driving home traffic-slow, pan-frying dinner,
kissing in the kitchen,
chasing my dog,
who thinks he’s a panther,
in the weedy backyard,
talking to my mother on the phone,
our voices stretched across states,
streaming TV while eating dinner on the sofa,
snug in front of the electric fire.
All of these things are ordinary.
All of these things are extraordinary.
This day can never be replaced.


To Oliver Sacks, inspired by “My Own Life”

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