Writing

My pen slides across the paper, picking up speed
The ink is dark, but doesn't smear
My hand grows tense, but persists
And the duet between my brain and hand
Gives way to something else

Oatmeal

While it's cooling, I add milk, and more milk
Then agave and cinnamon
And more cinnamon
Voila!

Surrounded

In between the anesthesia and the cold pack
I slip into another space
Losing all sense of direction
Krishna Das sings in my ears
I pray, then drift and surrender
Surrounded

Sick Day

Lying in a soft, warm bed nursing a cough
Hearing the rain fall outside the window
Taking my time to rest
While the sounds and smells of breakfast emerge

Sunday Afternoon

Paintbrush slides across the wet paper
Music floats across the room
Daylight's fading over the trees
And I see clouds crossing the page

Comforts

The gifts of a few pillows on the floor
And a blanket for warmth

The Day is Young

The sun warms the side of my face
A tickle of a breeze sweeps through
A mug of warm coffee to my left
A glass of water to my right
Sitting in ease as the traffic zooms by