weaving the poetry of the morning

meditations on the Sun's winter route

quietly, softly, slowly

I’m unhurriedly weaving the poetry of my morning:

the warmth of the ceramic mug that heats my hands

crisp air and the fields stretched out until the horizon, fields that have been sweating off the frost since the morning Sun came up

ahh Sun, Sun, Sun

heating cat’s fur blackness,

blushing my cheeks,

rising against the Earth’s cold touch

now it’s furiously beaming somewhere in the southeast

I think of the Sun, when it’s lazily, sluggishly climbing up in the sky,

on the mid-November sky, it’s rising just ever so slightly

and sailing on towards the southeast, along a gentle curve just beneath the horizon

I think how even the Sun slows down in winter

takes time off, doesn’t bother with the full route

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so now, I’m a weaver, weaving the poetry of the day, thread by thread, moment by moment in front of me

as I’m sitting on the front porch, flexing my cold toes inside fuzzy slippers. It's where magic is so tightly inter-knitted with mundane, so inseparable, one blank, unaware moment and you missed it!

but now my eyes are open, I’m slowing down time, I’m giving myself the gift of time and wonder, in the awareness it’s what brings the healing to my bruised heart, to my overthought mind, to my tense body

the healing comes in all the forms, the poetry of the day is made up of mismatched patches

of watching the cheeky curve of the Sun’s winter route.

of the weight of snow white King size duvet

of the first toe-dip of the hot bath

of running naked on the grass, breathing out into the cold air, my breath clouding up above me like I’m a heat pump like I’m a living factory swirling on those fallen leaves

when the Sun makes it’s lazy way on the horizon, no one thinks of making it change it’s route, to make it universal, just match it to the one of the equator

so I’m deciding to take the gentler curve, too. I’ll sleep longer and I’ll sink deeper into the couch, with a book and tea, and four hours of a documentary about David Beckham, and I’ll have another cookie and I’ll let go of the argument I had yesterday and I’ll forgive myself for saying the things I said when I felt small and hurt and I’ll take the shorter route from when I’m rising to when I'll set back down, but on that route, I’ll mark all the magic, on that route I’ll weave the poetry of another brilliantly mundane day