It’s those moments when you are driving to work or riding the train or walking the dog
when just in the corner of your eye
you see it
that’s life
well, maybe not your life
that would be presumptuous of me
maybe my life
no, that’s not it

it’s as if you put your hands in your pockets
and there is a packet of magic beans or fairy dust or
an old skeleton key that opens a secret door
no
it’s not like that at all

I used to think that I could create my life
I could get a roll of butcher paper and roll it out and lie down and getting a marker,
draw around myself
and from that pattern, I could sew days and seasons to fit just right
but that’s not life

life is bone and blood and spit and shit

and birdsong

don’t forget birdsong

life is waking in that dark hour right before dawn leaning against your warmth
hearing you breathe
feeling your heartbeat
and knowing I have
one
more
day

*** I dreamed this poem last night and woke to it completely formed. Hardly ever happens that way. But after spending Friday in the ER thinking I was having a heart attack (I’m fine, really – one more stress test next week – but I am fine…. really) And celebrating Bob’s birthday in a really really big way (post and photos to come) this must be what my subconscious was busy doing.