The simple facts are naked and pink;
a reviving number of sun-lit breaths,
a second helping of morning,
golden opportunities to make time fly
or scratch the dog’s back in lazy circles.
Coffee rising. A non-option, really,
those stale afternoons littered with yesterday’s prayers
that smell like old rain and stomp the stairs
going nowhere fast. Waiting for the churlish skies
scrubbed childlike and new, waiting for the newborn worlds
to cry a fateful tune. No need to fret —
the Universal antennae adjusts itself,
the frequency frequent enough,
the bright, cellophane words busting out
of pinata souls written in half.
Rushing Saturday off to endless destinations,
coated in foreign scents chasing dog-eared adventures
while trees typed on windowpanes that weren’t your own,
voyeuristic roots exploring uncharted, fecund soils,
time unbridled and galloping off as time is wont to do,
shadows growing older in the solitude,
crock pot seething on the counter, forgotten,
dogs fogging up the windowglass to see what you’ve begotten
while the evening grows colder as you grow braver,
tossing extra logs upon the Muse’s fire.
Poem and photos by Emily Murdoch.