It is getting late in the day when I dry my hands from the sink and turn to the bookshelf. “Ahhh,” I think - “I will find a poem that has to do with renewal, rebirth, fresh energy. This, this will do my job for me. I’ll post that and won’t have to think or create much at all.”
The baby is in his crib, asleep. He is one year, 2 months, and one day old. His body is solid and wiry, and he crawls everywhere these days, so proud of himself. Tongue between lips in concentration. Bright eyes taking us all in.
The air today was warm. My skin drank it in, all five degrees of it, so pleasant and such a shift from the bitter crackling cold of the last several weeks, the squeaky snow. That snow has now turned to rivulets running down black pavement. Filling ditches, overflowing.
I go to the bookshelf. I pick out some books of poetry I bought years ago, back when I wrote poems too. Back when I was excited by that medium, thought I might do it enough to call myself a poet.
Somehow, someway, years turned and years turned, and I don’t write poems anymore. Instead I: change diapers. Do dishes. Go to a job and do the things required of me there. Text friends. Gather boxes of things I don’t use anymore and bring them to the thrift store. Prepare food for meals, for eating. These meaty little details of life.