The Pause
After breakfast I pause,
and don't hurry to do dishes,
gulp my vitamins,
and rush to work.
I pause…
see four yellow roses
from bud to full bloom,
feel the guava leaves and ferns flutter,
inhale the space I'm making—
then try to hold the moment,
knowing tomorrow, as usual,
I will hurry to do the dishes.
Hoping to be Found
Sometimes words in me flee
when I call for them, like children
hiding from their mother.
Yet I'm the child in hiding,
hoping words will find me,
and show me to myself.
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Psychologist, poet,
Hospice of SLO volunteer . . .
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In Bed
My nocturnal animal takes over,
breathes me, thrums my pulse
in my belly, in my chest.
Muscles sag and my body slows down.
Automated systems, unknown to me,
prepare Pac-Man cells for clean-up missions
and the dreamer flips through my day's file
noting conflicts to revisit.
My mind, lost in daily details,
doesn't notice being silenced
by the night shift.
Gravitas
Lying flat on my bed feeling heavy —
my friend at farmers market just told me
her cancer returned, and this week
she's buying those pricey blueberries.
I'm on a round-room carnival ride,
standing against the wall that spins,
faster, faster. The floor drops away,
leaving me in place, plastered
by the weight of gravity.
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