by Lex Runciman
Tired and achy, Now wants to slump into an overstuffed chair,
there to read a thick book, for the eighth time, on a day
the window discloses snow's white all shapes and contours
and a maildrop's blue on stilts. Now does not want to think
about what is most needed to be thought about, wants to withdraw
into some gauzy comfort that corrects injustice, feeds the hungry,
warms the freezing, unshackles doors, wide-opens borders, comforts
the worried, calms the angry, and heals the ill. Now wants to dream
whale calls, coyote yips, all communications among the roots of trees,
even the arpeggios of coal happy to stay in the ground forever…
First sleep, then the waking.
Now rises, looks out, makes its plans, its hopeful step-by-step
for thaw in the gutter, clean water on its way to the sea.
Lethargy no more, Now says, again begin again.
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