They do not sleep, these minds of men; they chatter and shake like tin tops in a hurricane. The sleepless voice of everynight is an unnatural disaster of unseen storms and old stories of day late, dollar short.
Oh, Pensée; there is no poetry in this room; this cot is cold and old pinewood. The whispering muse does not descend; she waits on rooftops, dancing for younger poets, and I am hobbled, a burlap bone bag.
The shifting predawn earth calls these bones from night’s fitful grave. The gale calms with my rising; the oakwood smoke from last night’s fires still in my eyes, yesterday’s scars still sore, but fading; I make my way, worn and stiff, toward the door, out into the everyday, into the dawning.
Waking, walking, writing on my breath, talking to myself; beginning to feel the warmth returning; pulling the sun up over the eastern rooftops. The words, like birdsong, from deep inside me; one, then three, five to thirty; small wrens at first, and then crows and jays fly out before me, through the door, into the treetops. Walking out among the rising words, the revolving world pushes crisp air into my face, deep into the empty. This waking voice of everyday is my saving grace; this reach of my morning mind into the distance, throwing words into the sky, stretching into my full expanse. Alive, the word I am; alive, the world I am.
Oh, Pensée; the hurricanes will come again, the muse will dance for younger men; I know this is so, but the everyday will come again as well, and, for that, I will rise, and throw my words into the sky.