I'm checking in
with my inner trunk.
He tells me
I need a lot
of loving advice.

Prisoner of my
own expectations
I'm getting rusty,
grumpy and cold.

As his braches
swiftly swing to my side
he utters much welcome wisdom.

"Silly woman,
you need a rest."

Amazed at his grace
without further delay,
I put my luggage down
and I seize this day
all for myself.

My mission, he says:

To pose
as a dancer in repose,

to seduce
as a gracious geisha,

To listen to
"Rhapsody in Blue,"

To read the story of
Martha and Mary,

To connect
to the ins and outs
of my breath.

I don't need to have a reason:
It's not my birthday,
no lucky lotto,
nothing terminal.

I'll not do dishes, laundry,
floors, nothing in the list.

Let stillness court my hands.

Most important, he admonishes:
"No self-loathing.
No self-deprecation."

This mission,
I reckon,
has a sure touch
to something divine.

Morning finds my roots
curling in relaxed soil,
My senses morphed
like in a splash of wine.

And my previous scowl
is now a silly smile.
=