On Days We Are Tired
On Days We Are Tired
I don’t want to write today
I don’t want to cook dinner or fold the laundry either.
I don’t want to account for what is missing and stretch the provision.
I don’t want to admit how tired I truly am.
When I disappear into the long grass that grows on the east hills
given to the wind and thunderstorms among rodents avoiding hawks.
Open and swaying finding the ancient magic that points me home.
When I kneel to the dirt that threatens to take me before I am finished being
a soft place for tears and scraped knees or lips for kissing and hands to hold.
Playing with the sorcery that each day holds.
I don’t want to give up too soon.
I don’t want to admit how tired I truly am.
