There is a moment every morning when
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I hover, warm and senseless, palm to palm
with sleep and darkness. For three breaths I can
forget the square of earth I care for. Wrong
and calm in unhinged thought. I rise and dress,
limp down the stairs, go out the back, abide
a moment's sun. The grayhouse lock is flecked
with rust. The knob is cold. I push inside
the freezing box. Dead dirt is still the same.
Nothing grows, as long as I remain.
I blog irregularly at TinkerX. I'm also on Twitter. @andyhavens, go figure.