We fill and fill the days.
with laundry and projects,
dental appointments and blithe certainty.
As though it did not all hang like a last maple leaf
perched on a dried stem, held in a hand with a tremor,
worn like a bracelet grown too large
on a wrist like a twig.
I believe there’s a net beneath
and the net will hold,
but each morning is a trapeze handle,
sweaty palms and thin air.
There is nothing else to do about it
but the raking, and the creaming together
of butter and sugar, the folding and putting away.
There is good work, and telling the truth,
and marking the beauty of bare branches
in the blue blue sky.
joining, at least for today,
found via The Habit of Being