I woke without words.
Where they had been, their rowdy, jostling crowd,
was only a low fog, ghosting along the ground of my mind.
The sun rose, but I had only parted, silent lips,
no way to bid it good morning as I snapped the shade open.
The alphabet, my twenty-six friends, and their cohorts, the commas and periods,
the sharp-elbowed exclamation points and the gentler semicolons,
and their brother and sister, the pause and breath, were gone.
And so the mug left a brown ring mute with grief.
The rain-wet petals stuck to the driveway,
stamps on unwritten, undelivered letters.
I widened my eyes at my loved ones, and pressed my fingertips
to the backs of their hands, no way to say
Your collar is turned up.
Do you have your lunch?
I love you.
I jolted awake to the real Wednesday,
and waited, breath held, to listen
between my own ears. The welcome buzzing
of my words returned to me, spilling into the screen door
of this new day, their stories to tell: dawn and breakfast,
tenderness and coffee pot,
dogwood and forever.
My hands tremble gratefully,
bowl held to catch them
in the strengthening light.
Writing along with other good folks