A practice poetic

Look what has risen -

up from what seemed to be gone

color compounded.

A habit became a rhythm. The rhythm got groovy. We practiced that groove until it could move :

the static and clutter of too busy days

unfinished should-have shamings

mountains of guilt that took generations to build

{That groove got heavy and that groove got deep that groove got shiny and smooth and sweet}

That groove got heavy and that groove got deep that groove got shiny and smooth and sweet

We rode it past:

our same mistakes,

the forest of our selfishness,

doors that turned out to be walls all along.

until we were floating

our albatross untied

The grace of morning still inside.

The kitchen is tidy

The baby is nursing

Supper started in the slow cooker my sister gave me

I practice banjo in my head (to the beat of the laundry spinning in the dryer)

and I try, I try, I try

to not just think or know or believe

but like the teacher says-

I try to feel

this moment 

this poem

this feather light happiness

before it melts into 

the sea of days I don’t remember