The first

waking moment trembles, like

the tree leaves in the velvet wind

outside my bedroom window.  My eyes

consent to the light or darkness and seek

a recognized bit of truth - the floor, a well-

studied ceiling, or the regular, sturdy view out

the window.

Right before

I can feel that precious sting, that hopeful

pierce of joy because I am awake yet

again, I hear or feel or somehow

sense the rest, the other as it looms. I know

to give it a second. Let it shape itself

and approach. Sometimes it feels like I am beneath

a just fluffed sheet, stretched out over

the bed as it begins its fall. Scarcely

but methodically I feel it drape me, swathing

my naked body. My resolute companion, it

will be there at every waking now, like

floor, the ceiling, the window’s tired view.

I half

sigh and half moan aloud, then close my eyes

while I accept what is not and what will ever

be. Waking to this tires me more

than the miles I walk in the evening dearth, more

than the sleepless nights and weary

mornings, more than believing in a past

that no one else can see. (Hard truths sink

in slowly, like rain pounding against a drought-

wrought field in late July.)

Bracing

myself, I slide my feet

on the floor, not firmly, not grounded, but leaving

footprints anyway.