Where I Live

 

I live here, somewhere

between slipping out into newborn sunrise

feeling the dew-wet crispness of the day

and tripping out again at dusk to see the moonflower's

wide, full unfurling beneath party lights

and to the locust's buzzing lullaby.

I live here, somewhere

between the drudgery of cleaning vomit

and changing diapers, and folding endless mountains

of laundry and scrubbing floors and toilets

and donning pearls for the symphony

after eating a board of cheeses with champagne

and being awed into stillness at the sound of the cello's first yawn.

I live here, somewhere

between the barefoot chopping of garden vegetables

for roasted salsa, clad in swimsuit and denim

dancing to the beat of the Alabama Shakes

and the swathing of plush robe over pajamas

before curling up in front of the fireplace

teacup and novel in hand, listening to the fire's licking flames like friendly chatter.

I live here, somewhere

between the never-ending illness of sinus infections

and running out of tissues and watching the house fall apart

all around from the view of my bed, feeling despair creep up on cat feet

and that feeling of fullness when kayaking 

beneath the sun on waves, the scent of sunscreen 

worn like a badge as I push and test and challenge myself against the water and wind. 

I live here, somewhere 

between the maddening hours of being on hold

of waiting for the light to turn green, of haunting the waiting rooms

and scouring spreadsheets for errant expenses

and the habit of taking painting supplies on hikes

for impromptu art sessions, and al fresco adventures of all kinds. 

I live here, somewhere

and everywhere, for a moment

and another, and can see from this precipice 

that all of them are, in fact, a precious gift.