Poem: A Proper Filling

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A Proper Filling

You wake as the sun comes through the shades
and for a time lay under the quilt, warm, woozy,
in no hurry to start your day.

But start you must. Too long under the covers
and the demons creep in, stealthy as dawn,
and you are wiser than that. You move.

You wake. You push them aside like old laundry
and walk into your day, dressed in purpose,
even when none is needed.

There is little to do. Little at least that is needed.
Your work has dried up to a trickle
and no one clamors for your time. Surrender feels easy

but it is not.

It is not something you have ever done well,
surrender yourself. Not to God. Not to Love,
Not to the puppetmasters of life and work.

It is a struggle for you, knowing
when and to whom to give yourself, and why,
and how. What does it look like?

Life?
Death?
Is there strength in it? Or weakness?
Wisdom or folly.?
Certainly were you better at it,
you would be less tired.
No matter. It is how you are made.

“You were strangely self-sufficient” your mother once told you
about your childhood, mistaking perhaps
paralyzed as strength. Fear as strength.
From the outside, it is often hard to tell the difference.
They have in common a certain stoic stance,
easily mistaken for peace.

You are up. You make the coffee.
While it perks you step outside on the back porch.
The cats run out between your legs,
eager to find their prey of the day.

It is almost cold. Enough to wake your senses,
the cold rough boards beneath your feet.
You can feel yesterday’s dirt on the bottoms of your toes,
gritty and rough, and real.
You stand there, a bit longer than wise.
The chill cuts beneath your skin.

This is your time of meditation.
Your peace, found only after the demons are pushed aside,
when you breathe in and out with purpose,
allowing yourself to feel,
allowing yourself to empty,
and here, barefoot and goosebumped,
trusting that you will be filled
properly.

 

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