Morning

I am here, in our little room upstairs which we refer to as "Paris" though I've never been. It is a vacation spot for me; our bedroom, where the boughs of the trees reach inward toward the windows, birds flit about at the feeder hung on the oustide sash and a cat or two lounging on our bed with fresh vintage sheets. They watching intently with drowsy eyes...oh and old feather pillows that smell of grandmothers house. Bolstering my back against the old white metal bed whose life itself has seen so much of children bouncing, love making, sickness and tears and thousands  upon thousands of sleeps.
It is quiet up here. I can escape the busy busy busy of my grandchild and my youngest daughter fumbling around in her motherhood as all mothers have done. There are dishes not clean, piled in the sink, clothes in heaps on the floor in the landry room and work that beckons me each time I pass by my making desk downstairs, heaped with potential and discarded rhinestones.
This is not my whole life. It's just a moment that I have taken to reconnect. For me, reconnecting means reading a little favorite poetry, or writing a bit with a cup of Chai tea in hand. Setting aside the remains of the day until I can take a deep breath, and exhale; get dressed, put on a pair of favorite earrings or a sparkly necklace, and face the day ahead with a grateful heart.
Here is a poem I read this morning by my most beloved poet, Billy Collins~

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon,

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,

his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—

throwing off the light covers,

feet on the cold floor,

and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,

a palmful of vitamins—

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

in the early morning.