A Slow Start

Early morning. The light not yet complete.
The scenery still a bit dim with
the last vestiges of fog.

You sit. Waiting for your mind
to release it’s secrets, to name
it’s emotions. It takes time

and more than that, stillness,
to pry through the night demons
and find yourself again.

A cup of coffee. Breathing deep and slow.
Now and then your eyes close,
not to sleep. To think without distraction.

But not for too long. Soon you will open
them again – for the answers,
even those that live within

are often found the light around you.

About this poem.

A poem written around the morning. A melancholy morning, as most are. Waking up and heading straight to the diner. Maybe not so awake. It takes time.

I have written here before of my slow processing. How feelings take their time in getting to where I can name them well, which makes the morning push, well, work. But I know what to do. Two therapists and a lot of years gave me the tools. It’s still work, but like all good tools, if you use them, you get results.

And so, ten minutes after waking, I am at the diner. Writing, even if my brain has not quite kicked in. But it will.

Also a poem about mornings on the coast. Poetry is never about one thing. Even when I intend it to be.

The picture was taken at the salt marshes at the end of Cape Cod.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom