A Poem, a Woman, and a Day.

Each day since July I have read a poem in the morning, on my front porch among palm tree fronds and elephant ears, in sunshine, in mist, in rain. I listen to the birds, all kinds, and match all these rhythms with a poem.

Verse welcomes my day. It is, a specific verse and only one.

Then, at the end of the day, that one singular poem is read again. The same poem and only one each day.

In the morning, it is awakening, more like revelation, the truths of the poem, the lightness of it seems to shine, even in a darker expression. Through the morning reading the hard and soft truths are a kinder sort. At the end of the day, the poem speaks in a more singular voice, verse and rhythm find a deeper story: The root.

This practice has become parenthesis to each day.

It has offered structure to quarantine time, these most unordinary of days. I am not finished. There are many more mornings and evenings to hold a singular poem in my palms and let it flow through me. I reflect on the words, notice their nuances, their singularities. In this way, the one poem becomes many. As I receive the verse, the poem morphs, rearranges its meaning to embrace that particular day, this particular woman; a poem, a woman, and a day.

Here is my response in my notebook one morning:

Awake to blue skies, smaller birds singing, no crows crowding the palm tree. Warmest coffee. Sunning on the front porch. Shaded, a dog, Henry Butler, barks under the house next door.

I am journaling in verse. This was not a conscious decision. Even my physical observations hold a rhythm.

Awake

Awake to blue
skies. Smaller birds singing,
No crows crowding
the palm tree. Warmest coffee flows into
my mouth, sunning
on the front porch.

Shaded,
a dog, Henry Butler, barks
under the house next

door.