January Morning

My routine nightmares crumble,
Remembered only as discomfort.
The cats hover like birds of prey.
One side of the bed, empty now.

I feel myself pulled upright.
The bed barely needs making.
The blinds open,
The back yard assembles itself.

Penned in behind the cloud wall,
Our only star explodes and burns.
Galaxies flee from each other.

“You don’t have to do anything,”
The minister said.

(First published, in slightly different form, in Last Leaves Magazine, Issue 5 “Growth,” Fall 2022 – thanks to the editors.)

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