Humming
A poem about the passage of the day.
Three times I take the day:
tear it out, crumple, toss,
start over. Something feels off;
I fumble for the spine.
I listen but all I hear
is a humming sound
like that of an aging
appliance.
I drive through town.
Point A, point B –
under an overcast sky –
a cloud over my mind.
And when I return, I find
the path: gray worn stones,
humble, unadorned
scratching of things off a list:
laundry, dishes –
picking things up off the floor.
A gentle Presence
with me, in the ordinariness.
