Morning Writing

My friend Toni runs a weekly writing group that, at different times, I have tried to attend. Sadly, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve managed to make it across the river and to his home. Thankfully, Toni regularly shares writing prompts through Facebook that, over the years, I’ve dipped into for inspiration. This week, he posted a wonderful poem- Morning – by Billy Collins. I am not a poet. But, tonight I was drawn to Mr. Collins’ words and so pulled from his poem a few phrases and inspiration in form for my writing. I hope you enjoy.

 

Shabbat

Why would anyone bother with the rest of the day?

Toes unfurling and curling into soft flannel- cramply nested

Click of the electric blanket as you roll over, turn it on

And throw back the white sheets atop the snoftly snoring dog.

She rolls on her back and greets you with her shedding fur-belly.

You pad into the kitchen- feet bare , lightly dancing on cold linoleum,

Reach for coffee liners and mixed half-caf grounds- extra strong today.

This is the best.

 

Coffee winds its way through your nostrils, flipping the on-switch.

You pee. Pat the cat- nicknamed Old Yella for her early-morning ”feed me” yowls.

You comply

Then pour yourself a large cup with cream- to the brim and pad back to bed.

The dog is still snoring.

You crawl between the warmed sheets, coffee stationed like a Buckingham Palace guard on your bedside table.

Settled- You unfold your laptop and begin, feet flexed under the weight of feather duvet.

Lost in the click-clack of religion and challah and memory you sip and swirl caramel coffee cream around your tongue.

Your thoughts are mostly buzzing around your brain.

Busy bees.

 

An hour later, you bring the cup to your lips- Empty.

And your toes, unfurling and curling in the soft flannel, are cramply nested.

Click of the electric blanket as you lean over, turn it off,

And throw back the white sheets atop the dog who sleepily turns her head.

“You ready this time?” her eyes ask.

You pad into the kitchen. Dog bowing and downward-dogging at your heels.

Plum-orange sun-slits cover the basking gray cat.

You pour yourself a large cup of coffee- with cream-to the brim,

Open the back door and step out into frosty cold.

Your legs bow to the right as the dog pushes past in the doorway.

Ice and sunshine wind their way through your nostrils, flipping the off-switch.

This is the best.

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Amanda Michelle Jones

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connector of People & Resources

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