Chorus of Blue

The sun rises and the cat whines outside
I know his routine, but I choose to write.

There is a very long list of to-dos:
empty accounts, unpaid bills,
the responsibilities of parenthood
looming in soft little breaths
all around me.

Our home creaks for attention,
the subtle jingle of a ceiling fan
I need to fix,
pictures to hang,
that broken drawer…
most the food in boxes because I have yet
to line the cabinets,
sew bench cushions,
polish the floors.

And I know that he wants me,
The one slumbering
in the quiet of our room,
before blood flows like a barrier between us
And his desires are stalemated,
or frustrated
or lost.

But I decide to settle down to write.

Nothing of matter
Nothing of great consequence,
But the practice I will need to make it
matter someday.

The daily watering and reminder:

In your heart,
in your hands
                          is the seed of a writer,

(dishes, laundry, dinner, sex,
carpets, curtains, wall hooks,
plants, orders to fulfill, interest
to avoid, angry emails, lists, lists)

                                            help it grow.