It’s 7:13 in the
morning. My body has
woken me, slowly. I
lift my legs toward the
floor, then change course.
No need to listen to
my brain insisting that
we must do something, now.
Outside, the trees are still.
No wind. No slight swaying.
Still standing.
What story insists I
get up and do?
Slowly, I snuggle my
feet to the farthest reach,
the soft womb of covers,
and stretch toward a long
rest in bed, the tall trees,
swathed in mist, as my guide.
I’ve been thinking about this question since I got sick with COVID.
What story insists that I get up and DO?
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