A Hand to Hold
This is the beginning of the day,
the hiss-splat of coffee in the glass carafe,
my reflection in the window a ghost
in a ghost room, the window a veil
between me and the still-dark.
Friday is slow to become real, but surely
it takes form within my hands like a warm mug,
shapes itself into books and pens and plans,
rising from the calendar as we quietly sip
and sketch the hours ahead with quiet words.
This is the middle of the day,
the snap of sun-bleached sheets on the line,
schoolbooks scattered over the table,
the last of the coffee an abandoned half-inch in the pottery mug,
the mail delivered but unopened.
We shift our weight from might to must,
as we accept what the basket of the afternoon can still hold,
and what has been nudged into tomorrow
by the sloth or industry of the morning.
Noon is for clear sight and hard edges,
dark short shadows.
This is the end of the day,
softened by the circle of the twilight supper table,
hushed as the dim kitchen wiped clean.
The last of the wine dribbles into our glasses,
and after all, this is all we can ask,
a book, dented cushions, a hand to hold,
as we become again shifting reflections
in the darkening glass.
Writing along with other good folks