Morning Couplets

We move like molasses – only noon and the day waits;
we emerge into spring, a slow trot down to the water.

Turn your back on the weather and it will shift,
light rain teases, on and off like a switch – no plan, no warning.

Patches of sunlight or is it false, a stage light or candle beam?
This bluff of rain and spring – the reason, April tip-toeing in.

The idea of work, going out of the house, clogs my arteries;
I fall ahead to 30 years, when I can finish my book.

The time it takes to write a letter and explain
to someone what you can’t give them, unless they are dying for it.

Living inside an astronaut’s helmet, or a deep sea
diver in this comforter – the juice near my bed, oxygen.

He can’t recall his broken sleep, early morning risings;
our Houdini cats wait to be found inside the bathroom.

My head is clear enough to process work; a red line
across his head, in the back, is evidence of a small animal’s distress.

First barefoot day, gathering sand in toes,
rock heat on my soles; write green poems growing.

Wanting to send my stunt double out,
the minutes tick while I look for the right voice to broadcast.