writing days

 

robins’ trilling calls me into consciousness,

singing faint, slotted light –

pale infusion behind the dark.

warmth against my skin on sturdy sheets

protect me from

cold ridges of hardwood

waiting for my warm, soft feet

on the way to colder, harder floors.

finding comfort in the fibres of slippers warmed by the heating duct.

 

water streams gurgling down water pipe throats

splashes cold droplets across the top of my hand to lake water memories

smelling of warm algae-coloured water in

summer bathing suits trapping the fragrance of freedom in fibres of synthetic –

synthesis of then and now in a sound, breath, and memory.

 

freshly ground coffee beans smells like addiction feels

so that on days when I fill the coffee bean canister,

I shove my nose in the foil bag,

huffing coffee oil air like a dying fish gulping for hope,

remembering how it’s possible to love a fragrance almost more than a child

sometimes.

 

those early, alley-lit, winter mornings or

whispering dawn summer ones,

I curse the humming, gritty drone of the coffee grinder –

today, though, the whispering light prays louder than the grinding,

creating solace in silence once more.

 

winter morning candles leak light into darkness;

in summer, they trade heat with early sun-reaching pink fingers into pale blue sheets of paper skies –

scrawling onto pages,

like me,

in this soft light,

forgiving to my blue bic ink

on the smoothness of paper strong enough to hold my heavy words

some days.

 

on school days,

beginning with robin or chickadee trilling prayers to start the day,

I cradle my abalone shell –

all at once smooth and noduled like an old tree’s hands –

filled with white sage, tobacco, and sweet grass

healing me with pungent-sweet smoke,

after surrendering to flame’s helping heat,

hovering smoke around me to put me right for the day.

 

on my best day, though,

the smoke hangs on me,

on my paper,

until hunger pangs lift me from my hard, wooden chair.

cramps in hands and legs are worth it

to spend hours

smelling south breezes through bright windows

next to my white, coffee stained writing table.

 

© r. l. elke