Sitting quietly in my chair
trying to bring a coherent thought to the surface ,
the throbbing washing machine churns
the dirty laundry of my life and
from the monitor, the sounds of yet one more Law and Order
murmur her to sleep
as the frantic beat of Gershwin violins and clarinets
pump from the classical station.
Poetry will not rise above the voices in my head,
shouting about all the things left undone
and the failures that trip my every footstep.
The voices will not rest even as she sleeps
and the sparrows sing in the cedar boughs
and the pale snow evaporates
in the morning sun.