Unaddicted

To make a life in the stillness the simple waking after sleep.

The day’s duties

are gentle and arrayed in various hours.

I glide like a skater to noon

and look down the counter

at trees now in sun out in the yard.

Rooms are a privilege

abundant in silence, tidal reckonings break on the shore of my remaining

and I lap ever so softly against all that’s been hard.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Could the last page of the journal be claimed as the end of depression? The last day to hurt over a betrayal — or stew in the recent toxicity in life. This is the last page. I will close this book on grim mornings, cages of dismay and being incredulous, angry, alone. There is a new page, in a new book with a fresh spine. I bring my pocked self, emerging self rested on an endless morning and looking for words in the rising light.