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Morning Rituals Here in the Cabin, Owl’s Head, Maine


Upon waking,
first thing, coffee;
second thing, sweeping.
It is an easeful ritual. 
Sound of water boiling.
Shush of simple cleaning.
I wonder every morning
how did everything 
get so dirty?

Splintered fragments
of yesterday’s memories:
once held in boot sole.
Dust from last night’s dreams:
clouds once capping mountains
tumble, spin, ever collecting.
Strange casements
of metamorphosis,
an evidence of wings.

The ineffable serenity
in gathering up
what was left behind,
Sliding it all 
into the bin,
where all is soon forgotten.
As it begins again,
with each new morning,
floors clean, mind purified.