Monday Morning

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Monday morning at 7:03 am.
A layer of gray is settling
across the heavy closed sky
and threatening Monday rain.
The water creeps into my cold bones
that yearn only for the warmth of sun.

A pause now to touch paper,
hold this pen,
see what grows from the heart.
Before long, night will arrive,
with not a breath taken, not a flower seen.
Not a touch felt, not a soul held.

We are disembodied limbs
Walking past and through each other
like lonely headlights through fog.
How can we remember to open
our eyes, hearts, hands?
How do we find each other
even though we were always here?

The clock ticks on
and beings are born and lost and born again.
We wait with a dry mouth and panicked heart
wasting time and endless tears.
Longing only for the nectar of sweet words
and the salve of ordinary love.

Do you too rise on Monday morning
and try to warm your bones?
I hope we remember you and me and
the only words that can save us.
They will remind us of who we are
and so much more
when everything else
fades into gray.

Mindful Mondays

  • 41

    As I enter into my 41st year, I felt a sudden desire to return here to my blog and write.  It has been awhile.  I have shared poems and other words on social media, and a few here as well.  But, it has been some time since I have sat down to reflect, write out

  • Hold On

    For you whose light has been dimmed in an already dark world— For you whose voice has been muted in a loud screaming world— For you who feels lost in a world full of mirrors— Breathe. When every warm body is out of reach, you have the power to hold your own heart with a

  • Waking Up

    Holding hands in the dark, the wash of moonlight spilling onto the sheets. A kiss on my cheek and a hug that lingers long enough to feel the solid warmth of skin and bone. The breath of a sunset sky, and the heat of thunder and lightning pouring cleansing waters from above. A singular burgundy