Tuesday, October 26, 2010

A Writer's Day Ends

A tiny geyser tumbles from the tiled wall’s tap into the porcelain body-sized basin below.
Its continuous crashing mocks the gentle, graceful undulation of Satie’s
first of Three Gnossiennes.

She piles her dual-hued hair atop her head, securing it from drenching.
Clothes puddle to the floor, eyes close with acknowledgment for this lovely evening ritual.

An involuntary sigh begins in the bottom of her belly and progresses – ever so slowly – upward,
as she’s enveloped by the cool water ,
calmed by her solitary oasis.

She lets go of this day – the tiny aggravations, that elusive verb, the endless tasks that kept her from the page, the distractions.
In their place she lists five things that pleased, five reasons for waking.

Her house filled with music,
the breeze that flittered the translucent curtains and slid across her skin,
her daily desire to sing and dance around like a mad woman,
the soulful stare of whippet eyes,
the cranky cat-bodyguard who is sprawled on the bathroom rug,
and one extra – the words that did come.

Ah, it was a beautiful day after all.
She is content. She is joy.

Now she is ready for the silk, for the high count cotton bed linens, for the pillows, for sleep,
that time when her body, mind and soul prepare themselves to do it all again tomorrow.

is good.

- This poem was written in July 2009. I express gratitude to John Rotan for being my first reader for this piece and to Stephen Simmons for help with dusting it off and giving it a polish.

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