Day Zero.
Again, the dog is sick. Again,
the emergency room, the long
wait with worry, without answers.
Day One.
Dried oak leaves from last year somehow
found each other, curled together,
spooning like yinyang, light and dark.
Day Two.
Asparagus is barely there,
whip thin stalks harvested too soon,
pieces jumbled like a puzzle.
Day Three.
Tired or fatigued? They’re not the same.
Tired, I decide, watching flowers
forced by sudden heat into blooms.
Day Four.
The rhododendron buds new leaves.
Scilla & grape hyacinth bloom
intensely blue through rotting leaves.
Day Five.
Walking the dog through the green park,
I sit briefly on a park bench
and fall asleep. Then stagger home.
Day Six.
Resurrected, somewhat, I know
I can walk around the block. But,
can I twice? Do I have a choice?
Day Seven.
Wake. Two hours to dress. Two hours more
to standing. Then a four hour nap.
A moment of grace. Finally food.
Rosefire Rising 
I remember the Prufrock line “my life is measured in coffee spoons” the quiet routine of daily life
Yes, that’s a painful one.
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