Lauds

it is such a March as we haven’t had

in a decade. mothball snow

continues, the sun chilly, sky overcast

for weeks at a time. this a.m.

a tabby across the road yowled;

the very echo of the dream

I can’t let go from last night.

in that moment, when I heard her,

the particles of light entangled

in my soul loosed just enough

to catch me at a solid memory of a damp, green

Spring. the release, like the click of the first key

on a french horn playing a hollow

perfect F, got me through the pasttimes

I engage in: telephone calls and Facebook,

the click to click of i-stories on the web.

here I am at the window’s sill

of tired and the only thing to complain of

is nostalgia, meet this Thurday. when I was ten

I went to Lauds, Vespers, and Compline each day

for twenty-four days; I had to eat toast

before Lauds so I wouldn’t faint on the kneelers.

then I was undramatic and knew my habit

of falling out had something to do

with my rabbit metabolism.

today it seems it might’ve been the Ghost

tapping from between my ribs to remind me

of the sufferings of the day, and joy

undreamed of: dawn fading like a melody 

in a car going by.

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