We stand at our kitchen window, waking up to a deer strolling
into our backyard; a new neighbour.
Mornings and evenings drift away – the time we call ours;
the days we pack tight, to get through them like mud.
I think of my weight in the morning,
how I am better, smaller and unburdened.
The day adds pounds of decision and thought,
I struggle with my balance.
Our fridge moans and the backroom door sticks,
while we move ourselves into the cupboards and vents.
A mountain of boxes, and the military-like strategy of where to fit
what might not fit, but will, as we chip away at the walls.
A fog settles on the house, the street, the trees lose their contrast;
I shuffle inside the halls, put air back in and stretch out of night.
My first morning commute, the art of time management;
I suck back tea and jump headlong into wakefulness.
The difficulty of having a teacher, who feels too familiar
and thoughts slip in and out so easily; there is no room to second guess.
We stop the car, after a cartoon ride – my foot covets the clutch,
after gearing up and down, too slow, too quick to take a turn.