In the morning I open all of the blinds downstairs when the sun is just about to rise. I shuffle around and pick up, make the coffee.
At night I read a book by the light of the lamp clamped to the arm of an old wooden chair next to my bed, until my eyes are too heavy.
In between, I am maestro, conductor, the center of their gravity. I am steel.
I always write, I envision a whole chapter at the stoplight, how the green glow reflects up on the metal and how this needs to be recorded, so that I don't forget? So that I can make someone else feel what I feel? Because it's just plain beautiful? Lately it only stays in my head. And I think I'm finally comfortable there.
In between and into the beyond, I fill the hours with the things that need to be done, things I want to do, this moment to that moment,
turning the rod to close the blinds again.