Morning Rites
My morning assessment requires me to open my eyes
to the darkness infusing each frosty winter morning.
Thus begins my ritual --
My daily inventory of this world.
When I do not seem to dream,
sleep brings only hissing white noise
completely numbing each joy and sorrow --
bringing sweet, temporary amnesia and anesthesia.
Upon awakening, I find myself predictably drowning,
flooded with merciless, pulsing gushes of reality I cannot cease.
It is here I am required to feel each emotion anew.
The happiness that comes with the gift of morning,
followed by the heat of grief that never fades --
The purple, internal bruise I keep,
my shameful, secret hemorrhage.
I feel profound, cruel sadness here.
But there is great joy, too,
and, thankfully, plenty of coffee,
the scent of which drifts on caffeinated,
come-hither tendrils through the bedroom door,
sparking memories of the murmuring morning voices of adults,
some of them now only dusty ghosts,
who once fiercely protected my own growing girl-heart.
I whisper my love to these apparitions,
and own my spirit is again buoyant
upon hearing tiny man-mumbles through the wall.
I am no longer ever alone,
and there is just enough strength left in supply
to accept the daily, self-imposed double dare to play my role here.
I smile. There is life here that needs my care.
Sleep is indeed hard labor these days.
My muscles ache from hours of unconscious, nocturnal toil.
There is just enough slack to allow a luxurious, long stretch
before I plant each foot on the carpet
and allow them carry me to see one bright miracle of
a dawning smile springing from a growing boy-heart
that requires my protection and love.
to the darkness infusing each frosty winter morning.
Thus begins my ritual --
My daily inventory of this world.
When I do not seem to dream,
sleep brings only hissing white noise
completely numbing each joy and sorrow --
bringing sweet, temporary amnesia and anesthesia.
Upon awakening, I find myself predictably drowning,
flooded with merciless, pulsing gushes of reality I cannot cease.
It is here I am required to feel each emotion anew.
The happiness that comes with the gift of morning,
followed by the heat of grief that never fades --
The purple, internal bruise I keep,
my shameful, secret hemorrhage.
I feel profound, cruel sadness here.
But there is great joy, too,
and, thankfully, plenty of coffee,
the scent of which drifts on caffeinated,
come-hither tendrils through the bedroom door,
sparking memories of the murmuring morning voices of adults,
some of them now only dusty ghosts,
who once fiercely protected my own growing girl-heart.
I whisper my love to these apparitions,
and own my spirit is again buoyant
upon hearing tiny man-mumbles through the wall.
I am no longer ever alone,
and there is just enough strength left in supply
to accept the daily, self-imposed double dare to play my role here.
I smile. There is life here that needs my care.
Sleep is indeed hard labor these days.
My muscles ache from hours of unconscious, nocturnal toil.
There is just enough slack to allow a luxurious, long stretch
before I plant each foot on the carpet
and allow them carry me to see one bright miracle of
a dawning smile springing from a growing boy-heart
that requires my protection and love.
posted by Nancy at 11:23 AM
4 Comments:
Another great Poem
hello you are a very smart person and have very deep emotions on this sydrome and are a very great parent and sound like a very good friend who will always be there comment back -Dominick and also will you help me on my blog? do you have any instant messengers? bye
this is beautiful. I can feel every word...
My second husband died of cancer in November 1998 having been diagnosed in May 1998. I can remember the merry go round of grief, guilt, relief, joy, sadness and fury. I have no idea what it is to be you, but I recognise the grief for the child you anticipated, as well as the loss, and the love, of the one you got. You write so well, and your soul shines, girl- happy new year!
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