Morning with the Silver Spruce

A morning poem in the spirit of Robert Bly

Waking to my 
     daughter's plea
for breakfast 
     and coffee (for me).

As if late to a flight,
     bags frantically packed —
chasing the school bell 
     to the gate.

Secret handshake, 
      pats on heads,
then hugs and love 
      fly away.

Freezing breath 
     from the Silver Spruce
slaps my face:
"remember this 
     ordinary day,
that was perfect 
     in every way."

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Notes

I’m am suprisingly spent after this weekend’s event. I tried to wrap some very heavy poems in a media-bending way and I feel a bit exhausted in that direction. The fire’s not out, but sometimes when I feel when I go hard on the anti-war poems that I’m re-setting a misaligned bone.

I’m slowly getting back into my flow. I wasn’t prepared for the post-performance crash.