Let me simply sit a while.
The world waking. Loading the boats,
Preparing. There is work to be done.
Every day. Work. More of it.
A weapon in my hands
against the demons, against the lethargy
of surrender. The simple work
of creating fire against the cold,
of pushing back the consumers of life
full instead, of color, So ignore the grey clothes
and the bleary eyes, the weathered hands
holding coffee as I look out across the water,
There is fire in there, in me.,
and work on the way,
stoking the flames.
About this poem.
So much of my mornings is the hardest part of the day. Work, pushing back the depression so I can enjoy the rest of my days the way we all deserve to.
PS: The picture was taken in Provincetown, MA. I love to go out in the mornings as the boatmen are working on their craft.