lundi, mars 13, 2006

Morning Revelry

It is almost fifteen to the hour
and for the first time this morning
I am awake
unpleasant though it may be
I am awake to the potential
to the harm
to the choices
to the meaning of each day.

I am smothered by tent peg options
each one to hammer home
a final conclusion
each one to settle the matter
each one to hold something fast
less flexible
less maleable
less childish
as the mornings stack up.

and I stop for breath on this one. At fourteen minutes till the hour
on this particular morning
when rain clouds have coughed up the sun
on another horizon and
left this one bare
and desolate
and me and my choices
are looking into the street at birds
and preening
and stomping their feet.

At thirteen minutes to the hour
on this particular morning
I have revoked my claim on anyone
and stopped calling myself "mistress"
realizing the error of such a game.
instead I sit lightly by a table and pen
and wet the ink to page to table to thumb
and get it all out there
into the open, spread evenly across my desk
at twelve till the hour.

Thunder rumbles outside
and I should light a lamp in the darkness
since my eyes are failing with the morning light
at ten minutes to the hour I spoke of
and I can't see around me
not a couch
not a rug
and most certainly not the black cat
who could be anywhere
as I crease another line of words into the paper at my fingertips.

Nine minutes to the hour
and I'm finally woken on this almost-Spring morning.
It's been a long dream
and I am a lazy child
and often hesitant to face the day
for fear of what it holds
at eight minutes till the hour I spoke of.
The wind is whipping up
and thoughts I thought had been fastened down
are pulling up at the corners
and this rain is getting in my window
and the choices are flying about again even though I thought I'd got them settled.

I'll be rearranging them again at seven minutes to the hour
on this particular morning
with no sun
and threats of rain.
hopefully the canvasy stuff that blinds the mind to sentiment and makes it easier to tackle this monstrous and unstructured thing has been placed here
in the dark where I can find it.

I'm getting a bit dizzy.
My tea is cooling in a corner undrunk
at six minutes to the hour
and I am floating my pen over the page
leaking ink
and trying not to write or decide
and trying to stay strong
even though a tempest rages
and I cannot imagine how to keep this habitation dry
under the force of it and its perverse wetness
at five minutes to the hour.

And here's where I stop writing and face it,
the coming storm that swallowed the sun
and the swirling tempest of tent peg choices.

I'm setting my face toward it
though the birds have shown forethought
and hid themsleves,
I won't. With so and so many minutes left to go
before the day begins.
This tent is mine
and choices
and rainstorm
and though I do not see the sun
I know it's there.
With such-and-such minutes left to go.


there is a promise
more frightening to keep than to make.
there are words
more terrifying spoken than thought.

bend backwards
your heartfelt promise
and see if it will break.

your irrevocable words
and see if they are true.

you cannot take back your words
without lieing to yourself.

you cannot renig your vow
without hollowing your heart.

but though you try
for selfish sake
to lie or cheat or deal...

you are under lock and key.
you belong to integrity.