Monday

Friends, this one’s a little silly — a poem about me, bundled up and freezing, stubbornly refusing to get up and turn off the fan once I’d finally gotten comfortable. So instead, I wrote you this poem, with a blessing tucked inside.

She sits in dimly lit bedroom,

Inclined at 45 degrees, or some unknown angle,

iPad on thighs with chilled hands typing,

Shih Tzu at shins on top of feathered duvet,

The fan is on, as it always is, white noise,

Blustering her fingers, yet she does not stir,

To turn the fan off, or the lights on,

Instead she sits and taps on keyboard.

Writing a poem in a white-walled chamber,

One of a chilly poet with fingers numbed,

In a poorly lit room with sunglasses,

Whilst the sun set round 20 minutes ago.

A poet who has hooded head nestled,

In drawstringed restricted field of view,

Carefully crafting symphonies absent sound,

For the careful consideration of you, the connoisseur.

I hope you had a day that was grand,

That you felt loved and loved in turn,

That you reflected the Father,

And lifted a prayer for the lost in the land.

So must I bid you a fond,

Temporary fare thee well,

Till we next meet in prose,

Or this poet’s somber song.