Tomorrow

Tomorrow

I will take the time to linger by the lake,

To touch my toe tips to its cool surface and watch the flash of fish

Slip beneath the weeds.

Tomorrow I will pluck a daisy, counting off the petals,

Each one a vindication or a soft rejection, who needs that kind of

Fickle love anyway?

Tomorrow I will bake the bread, rolling and kneading and

Watching it rise, the smell of warm yeasty goodness almost making me

Swoon with giddiness.

Tomorrow I will honor the friends whose days were cut short,

I’ll wear patchouli on my wrists and dress in a gypsy skirt, maybe with bells

Announcing my arrival.

Tomorrow

What Kind of Traveler Are You?

Do you go where the pavement leads, facing sternly forward, the periphery merely, well, peripheral? Or is your

Head on a swivel, a series of exclamations perching just atop your tongue? Look there! Did you see that? Oh! That cardinal!

Those colors! The gypsy in me sees the forest, the hidden pathways, the possibilities in every turn and untaken road.

Murmurations of starlings, point no way and all ways, unlike the Canada geese who arrow forth, eyes forward, honking

Relentlessly. Following the curves I discover a stand of firs, surprise a doe and her fawns, utter a cry of delight.

For today this poem was wishful thinking. I am traveling, but I have no time to dally on my way to the airport in Panama City Beach. My flight leaves at 9:45 a.m. and should arrive in Austin, Texas, at 3:15.

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