Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Again And Again...

So once again I lift my eyes to view the scattered morning.
And find it welcoming, but waiting for my constant hand
To sort the piles of tasks and errands into some coherence
And somehow make of this day something worthy of remembering.
There is a feeling as I look around me at the chaos
That all I do will matter, yet not be the final act.

It's up to me, and I can organize the way each act
Of mine fits into the great plan to make a stab, this morning,
At once again subduing, making order out of chaos.
And usually, I do the thing that comes first to my hand,
The ritual of coffee, somehow, every day, remembering
That it's the steaming cup that will persuade me to coherence.

And so, what will I do with it? This morning, my coherence
Will lead me to the laptop, and the satisfying act
Of answering my e-mail. No, I have not ceased remembering
That there are also dishes, since today is Monday morning.
The soap is there, the scrubber, and in just a bit, my hand
Will grasp the stuff of housewifery, and end the sticky chaos.

But there is always, every day, the looming larger chaos
Of dusting, floors and cupboards, and, defying all coherence,
The repetitious threnody of chores which by my hand
Were all done yesterday. It seems no matter how the act
Of energetic organizing zips through every morning,
That it returns next day. I know I did it. I'm remembering

This same pile of newspapers, and I also am remembering
The weeds and dirty laundry, the same overwhelming chaos
That I organized just yesterday. Why is it, every morning,
Just as if no one had made a single effort towards coherence?
It seems a waste of energy, since each and every act
Is just to do again next day. Perhaps I'll stay my hand

And sit back down. The book I am now reading in my hand,
The stretch of tired luxury. I close my eyes, remembering
Just how it feels to sit at ease, to not be pushed to act
At all, but simply BE, and once again explore the chaos
Of my own scattered thoughts, tumbled out of all coherence
By the whirlwind of disorder to which I awoke this morning.

And now I close my hand around the book. Forget the chaos.
It's time I was remembering that any small coherence
Will be my act of willing to enjoy this fresh new morning.

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