Always in the Poem

Rain falls. At five-thirty a.m. you hear too many birds to count. I is always in the poem - how is this a problem?

The semi-feral cat who in winter sleeps on our back porch leaves a dead chipmunk by the peonies, and I use a flathead shovel to bear it gently away. It's not loneliness exactly, or it is but I don't like admitting that. There are ten thousand questions, each bringing forth ten thousand more, are you sure apologetics is your thing?

Confused by the dandelions this year. Moving ferns and forgetting they don't like sunlight and so also killing ferns. The many uses to which midnight has been put.

Adaptions which we execute without regard for their function being mostly biological. A maroon rug which came from my parents, on which my son stands playing music. Crescent moon slipping into rain clouds moving slowly in the direction of Boston.

Shades of green in the surviving hemlocks. I have been mistaken in my use of conflict as metaphor. "Jesus loves you" infuriates me, and I am coming to terms with what that means about how I feel about myself.

Who notices what is sort of the whole point of living, no? I went without a career, and while it hurts economically, there are things I am allowed to see I almost certainly would have otherwise missed. Grieving aunts, the subtext I never quite reach.

Cleaning up melted butter. It is many things, including dawn, the idea of angels, and the sentence "It is many things, including dawn, the idea of angels, and the sentence ""It is many things, including dawn, the idea of angels, and the sentence . . .