Sunday
Just waking, and I’m already thinking there’s much to do, more than I can manage at any given moment. So I pray to let this day unfold as the bee goes about his business, from one flower to the next. I am barely awake and yet in my dreams I have been writing poems - long verses, which transport me into a semi-lucid ecstasy, and a divine understanding of my being. Now my eyes are wide open. This space feels empty. Outside car after car zips by while I sit and wait. It’s Sunday, my green tea tastes earthy, and I wonder how I’ll ever find my way back into my dreams.
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