tip-toe’d wrapping paper

Some days.

By 10:30 in the morning yesterday I had sat in meditation three times, drank a couple of cups of coffee, and written my three Morning Pages in the recliner. I’d washed my sheets and towels, then washed the Camry in a car wash. I was sitting at my rarely-available but there-it-was favorite table at Starbucks with a dark roast and a side of half and half, looking at a poem from one of those books I tend to dig a lot – “Alone, she stands everywhere, leaving no tracks.” My friend Gina had called earlier, back at the studio, and there was poetry of its own in our conversation.

Then, on Zoom, I heard this read in Kentucky from a different poem late in the afternoon – “There are so many unopened presents from your birthday.”

The “leaving no tracks” has a glow for me. The all those “unopened presents” too. I was conscious at 4am of having woken up again and getting yet another chance. Maybe to leave no tracks. Maybe to open more presents.

Yeah. Some days.