Rising

The plight of another gray morning
is to throw off the quilts,
confounding the vapor of fatigue,

and rise as the hero
in my own story
against the thrum,

aghast at the thought
that I will not champion
each breath.

There is no retribution
as my feet touch
the cool wood of the floor,

only a chance for reflection
at the constant flow of curiosity
of what comes next.

Coffee, shower, selecting the costume
for the day. Oatmeal or toast.
Vitamins. Kisses from my children.
The car starting without a hack.

Pulling out of the driveway.
Arriving safely after an hour
of dodging semi after green Vermont plates.

Computers, conversations, endless meetings.

Laughter, hate, frustration, brilliance of kind souls.

Home to cooking.
Home to gentle light
at the end of barking orders.
Home to the comfort of night
in my simple bed
in my own skin
and with intentions
to leave nothing
in my wake.