Four Monday morning poems

The couch has seen better days
but then so have I.
And, yet, we both face this Monday
sagging with relief
at the quiet that fills the house
once more.




My hand whips through the crowd of gnats
a scythe sending them scattering to the wind.
But then, just like Robert Patrick,
(the T-1000 Terminator)
they reform,
a buzzing, floating, angry mass
And in the end my scythe is worthless;
my lip gloss, ruined.




If a leaf could bear my weight
and I could balance there
surveying the world
perhaps I, too, would offer myself as a sacrifice
to the whipping wind
and not even mind as it carried me away




Sometimes when your hair falls down your neck
from a terribly placed ponytail 
and the breeze gives you a tickle
it's not so hard to take an extra two minutes to smell the flowers
as they say
because today the flowers are not metaphorical
they are right at your feet
swaying in the same breeze that tickles your neck
and you wonder
how many people did it take?
how many animals?
how much stardust of lives past
to make these flowers and to make this wind,
these things that stop you for a moment
on this gauzy Monday morning,
making you take an extra breath or two
before you stumble upstairs to the shower
to begin your day 

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