Before the day begins, you sit,
looking, not forward, but through
the murk of your own mind,
pushing through the lies
your mind tells yourself, pushing
hard, remembering again, how to see,
how to feel, that the truth matters,
that you matter,
that the earliest light matters,
even if you have to create it yourself.
About this poem.
Regular readers know – mornings are hard for me. Regular readers also know I believe we can create our own light. In fact, we must.
Twirling the stick as fast as I can.
PS: The picture was taken at the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in Boston.