The week begins anew.
People you know and love, are suffering.
You too, truth be known.
and yet here you are,
sitting with a cup of coffee at your diner.
as if all was normal. All was well.
If you needed a reminder,
the headlines shout out that all is not.
Plague. Death. Injustice. Lies.
A world gone mad.
You got up this morning.
Beat the demons like a drum
and left them on the floor.
You are wired for battle.
The more you fight.
The more you fight well.
Normalcy your weapon. Rituals
of prayers and words
and the hard head that drove your father so mad
serving you well.
allowing you to serve others,
part of your own healing.
The work of it all
keeping you sane, infusing you
You sip your coffee
with discipline. Forcing yourself
to savor it’s sweet bitterness.
Rituals. Rejoicing the tiny gifts.
About this poem
The word ablutions means the act of washing one’s self. It can be physical, emotional or spiritual. Or all three.