March 23rd, 2010

It is rainy this morning
And I do not know that there are any songs about rainy Tuesdays:
All the songs are about Mondays, or Sundays, or Fridays, or Saturdays,
And I wonder why we walk through Tuesday each week unnoticed.
It is grey and brown and very green outside.
The few early morning walkers trudge along drearily,
dragging their heels in lackluster effort,
As if their feet were not ready to go quite as far as their bodies would take them.

Or perhaps I read this onto them.

This morning is a morning like any other:
Some people have been awake for hours, catching the 5:45 train to work:
Some parents have just dropped their children off at school,
and I wonder, if, coming home, they know entirely what to do with their mornings.
I hear the construction workers outside with their heavy metal tools, despite the rain,

And, I, this morning, take my time.

How nice it is to have time to take,
What a luxury to be still on this dark and gloomy day.

But soon, I will go for breakfast.

Maybe I will walk around a little while to a coffee shop
And I will get the very biggest mug of warm, frothy, milk-soothed coffee:
One that is large enough to hold with my two hands,
And warm enough that I can trace its path to my stomach by the way
it heats up my mouth, then my throat, then that bit between my heart and lungs,
and finally its round, empty destination: my belly.
Perhaps, with a bit of luck, it will be large enough and warm enough to heat up my soul,
And it won’t be such a dreary Tuesday.

-BHN