Most days,
I
forget.
get caught
I
up
with the chore of waking, the question
of how to do the day, and things shp
away before the
of a
I
can remember
-
pumr
sailboat, the
way
the
word
Esurientes rolls off
my tongue,
a trombone.
I
the
low groan of
did not always love
these things. Before,
it
was requiems
and the op. 8 #12, and the sad weight of a cello. Vincent's lonely
But there
is
iris.
more now. There
the scent of clover as
I
am
is
lying in
it,
way I have learned the shape of a face, the morning's sweet
the
light.
I
cannot always name
but somewhere there
my blessings,
is
a
list
always grows.
Most
day,
I
can sing.
-
Jennifer Barizo
that
