Ten Thousand Things

They wake me in the night now
like babes crying for the warmth of the breast,
hungry bellies of thought
unsettled and unsatisfied
to sleep.

Perhaps it is the lover that nudges me awake,
wants something deeper
as his hand rests absently on my bare hip,
warm and insisting on the attention
that only skin can convey.

Perhaps as I arise, unmoved, slip on my pink robe
like the tired queen I am,
I cannot help but notice
that Honesty is the most urgent
of the ten thousand things.

She flashes across the lawn
like June fireflies
making me pick up a pen
at 2 a.m. to make a list
that will soothe my aching shoulder,
organize so many thoughtless tasks into neat rows,
and give me courage to forgive myself
for what I have left undone.