You are still waking up
and bumping into things;
doors, chairs and yourself.
Everything leaves a mark,
a hint, a trace of what was,
like pollen on the fingers
when flowers cause a stain.
You peel the fear off your skin
like the sunburn you had as a child,
the rawness, that you thought
was a new skin growing.
Now, learn the language of alone.
Don't worry about tenses.
Like Hopi Indian,
alone is all present tense.
The division of time does
not exist in alone
or in the hot plains of Arizona.
Remember the Hopi woman
you met there one winter
and how she did things slowly.
Do one thing at a time
Notice the urge to bend towards joy.
Notice the books you love ;
“The Hare With The Amber Eyes”,
“A Field Guide To Getting Lost”,
“A Girl Is A Half-Formed Thing”.
You will mouth the words slowly
and stroke their spines like lovers.
Carry their knowing into the day,
like talismans or blessings.
Light candles, don’t answer the phone,
cook risotto and buy new bed sheets.
Make tea and use the best cup for yourself.
Be overwhelmed by ordinary kindnesses;
the girl at the check-out,
the friend who sent a parcel
of pens and love from New York.
Lean in and breathe.