Friday, January 6, 2017
Rachael Mead #1
New Year’s Day
The sun falls this morning
on the green roof of leaves.
I walk on a carpet of needles
from the wild summer storm.
On the far side of the world
it is still last year. It’s arbitrary,
I know, marking this lap of the sun.
Yet each year I’m far from kind,
to the self I’m approaching,
tying her to tasks, loading her
shoulders with expectations.
The warm air fills with pine.
The dog lies in the sun. The cat
sleeps away her morning.
It seems to me they are pleased
to be a dog, a cat, to be sleeping.
In my imagination, they desire
nothing more than to eat, to run,
perhaps to have my company.
Who knows? Perhaps they lie awake
while I sleep, wondering what
on earth they are doing here.
I shake off time and tradition.
Right now, I want nothing more
than to walk, quiet and soft,
on the fragrant duff of the trees,
to lay my wild body down in the grass,
and lift my face to the pass of the sun,
the old muscle of my heart beating,
beating out its love for this world.