As if mentally punching a time clock
which rings with triggered, impersonal resolution,
I crouch to some task, adhere to a list, and check
items off, releasing the sudden out-thrown
breath that says “Now, that’s done!”

With every ordering, each neatness—
dust waxed from a surface, a long overdue letter
written and faxed—snow accumulates,
clocks tick. I scissor stems, put roots in a jar,
advance pale rootlets into the future.

Then suddenly feathered, crest-risen, I peer down
at my turtle’s inch from the blue sky’s vantage point,
eavesdropping on the man at my work station
as I check my messages or run a word count,
evolved to the level of an ant.

Ever again, will jonquils or poetry break
the crust of these well-scrubbed quotidian
satisfactions? When will I read, unassigned, a book
again? Loft a dry f ...

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