If only she could, she would give her
awaiting rejuvenation, still breathing, broken
What to do on the days when tears drop
into her soup? It’s OK to do nothing, she thinks
except simple tasks like laundry.
She picks up a book of poems instead
reads, “Trees lose parts of themselves inside a circle of fog”*
She’s in a thick fog, has shed her leaves
absorbed moisture till she has water
on the brain, disoriented by the shift that wakes her
at night, puts other parts to sleep,
brought to her knees in a wave of heat and tears,
unable to exchange the chef’s hat
for the sombrero.
Her feet feel heavy, her mind dull.
She tells herself, it is only temporary,
lie fallow, compost.
Oh the music she needs to comfort her
and the long night she’ll travel through
until the bright dawn reclaims her.
Human, faulty, imperfect,
like the low thrum she hears in Cohen’s voice.
Claiming darkness as its source,
it rings true, full of light.