I’m tossing notebooks today. I need to. I have two huge stacks of spirals that have been accumulating for years. I skim through each one and tear out what seems worthwhile. Most of it’s morning pages, complaints, comments on how strong or weak the coffee is, the same hopes and frustrations that I have now. On repeat.
I found this “poem,” if that’s what it is. I don’t think I put much into it. But it does remind me of my state…sometime in 2010.
The coffee was burnt
in a ring around
the bottom of the pot
this morning, left
on all night.
I didn’t sleep anyway.
There is wet rosemary to pick
this morning
for the evening’s chicken.
In the early light
incense curls toward me,
outstretching its hand
in gesture,
and I feel the
ache return.
A hawk stretches
his body
against the flat blue sky.
He understands
his action
in this place.
Rebecca Begins... 