Day 10

the ordinary

morning cat pokes his nose
into my eyelid, wanting fed.
my other eye waters and
focuses on blue clock face
an hour past his usual time.

we race downstairs, cat always
winning, though I start down first.
he handicaps me, I suppose,
ungainly human— slow, he thinks.

he sniffs kibble, waits
till his tongue touches tuna
in the other bowl, laps a little,
then wrinkles his whiskers,

ready now for winter weather
but only for a moment, this creature
comfortable in his own routine,
prefers the inside warmth, the ordinary.

Carol A. Stephen
January 10, 2012

Day 8 an absent silence

the house returns to me
its sounds loud today
in the silence from other rooms
empty of visitors and family
humidifier hums, clock talks,
and the furnace and fridge
hold their low-key conversations
no snores before the tv screen
no rattle of crinkly bags
nor clink of coffee cups
as they collect in kitchen sink
only the cat and I still here
in this silence of absence
—cas

Day 7 noticing the body 

my brain says “Poem!”
but words are stubborn,
hiding while fingers mindlessly
scratch an ankle too dry
from winter’s arid air.
my focus becomes small,
this patch of skin, one ankle.
if I had a microscope, I might
watch layer by layer as dryness
flaked into the air. A circle
of dust motes twirl and sway
above the grate in the floor
borne on the hot, dry breath
of furnace two floors below.
outside the moment, ears attune
to the low hum of humidifier
two rooms away, as it spills moisture
that never reaches thirsty skin.
Outside January’s warm enough
to melt the snow that fell three days ago,
sun-sharp and bright as a June day and
warm, if you stand out of the wind.