Morning

The morning brings its weight

as I sit and sip my coffee, and

butter my ontbijtkoek.

There’s still snow on the ground

and it’s mid-April.

No sign of tulips

or crocuses, only

patches of yellowed grass.

My wife joins me

in the silence of the house

for her quiet time--

books piled next to her,

tea hot and steeping.

My children sleep still

or are quietly reading.

This is a season change

the earth tilted 23.5 degrees

on its vertical axis,

northern hemisphere

tilted towards the sun

bathed in light.

I can only sit and wait--

describe the day,

break it into pieces.

the wood

i was trying to find the way

but at every turn i found

gates, chains, locks, walls.

even the windows shuttered.

my maps were useless,

friends’ directions insufficient,

sources of light sputtering.

it’s not because of storms

or wind or rain or other

atmospheric effects.

let me claim it was a spell,

some darkness named

and given free reign.

the way we plant a wood

out of abandoned hopes,

how we build a home out of pain.

changes

this is my membership

it entitles me to nothing

it is only a membership

a way to prove i belong

to a profession

it required only my name

and a job description

(and a small annual fee)

every year they remind me

you belong to a profession

they mention me by name

i reintroduce myself

describe what i do

where and for whom

very little usually changes

not even the annual fee

the sticker with the year

the only thing that changes

my name stays the same

the proof they require

they believe everything i say

confess

in the morning there is still

tension. spaces between us

full of silence as we pass

each other in the hallway.

the sound of our chewing

at the breakfast table.

our steady gait as we walk

into the rest of the day.

sometimes silence is

an endurance test.

other times it is selfish,

a punishing. we mistake it

for entreaty. we embrace it

in fear. make the first step.

form the next question. confess.

climbing

it’s a mad scramble, this

scribbling down lines

like climbing a cliff face

each hold precarious

always the reach

exceeding capacity

grasping at stars

hoping for enough light

to guide the hand and

steady the feet, toes

curled against every nub

inserted into every possible

space; crack or pocket

hunting emptiness.