Morning/Ode to the Handmade Life*

Morning.

I'm rushing through the cold.

Thankful that the snow waited.

Thinking...

Sirens whine, trucks rumble, horns blow at the idiot trying to turn from the wrong lane.

(What if they're generally capable, just lost?)

Comeovers flap in the wind and bald heads glisten.

Obedient, lovely, normal.

I smell a perfume that must have been her favorite forever.

Heels click, click, click to the door.

Doing this again.

I won't do it much longer, I just know it.

Searching for meaning...

in lip balm and wool.

There's nothing more meaningful than doing
what you were born to do. (Provided that you believe that we are all born to contribute good [which I do].)
To live a gigantic life visiting the market at noon,
being available to those you love, taking a walk and not having to return at a specific time, seeing the sun at 2pm in the afternoon, wearing jeans on a Tuesday and mailing your work (your heart) to someone who believes in what you are doing.
Life without borders.
I see it.

*I've been feeling a little poem-y lately. I'm a terrible poet, so please bear with me through this phase!