Sunday, September 11, 2011

This morning I woke
to my daughter crawling into bed
with me, to new sunlight
warming the walls.

I woke slowly, made coffee, set
a bowl of bread dough
in the window to rise.

As the day warmed I hung
clean laundry on the line
to absorb the day, the air

finally clear of smoke after a week
of wildfire. I watched my children

build castles in the sandbox, study
the moving shadows of leaves
across their arms and legs.

This day.
I move slowly
through it.

Ten years ago the world
was falling apart.

I hadn't known for hours afterward;
without a television, the radio
left off that morning. I'd gone
for a run in Greenough Park,
ignored a phone call from my mom
asking if I was okay.

I walked to class in a strange quiet.
I still didn't know.

On campus, people were huddled
around TVs, watching the same
loop of footage. The buildings fell
and fell. I stood and watched, too.
What else could I have done?

In class, my poetry professor
wept. We tried to share
what we knew,
which was little.

It was a golden day; late
summer honeylight
like it is today.

Today I am sitting on my porch ,
watching my children,
trying to decide which parts
of this to carry
with me.

What I will do is this;
I will pack seven quarts of tomatoes
into jars for the winter, I will freeze
these peppers and squash.

I will teach my children peace
and kindness. I will take the time
to reflect, to heal. I will bake
the dough rising in the window.

I will remember.
I will write this poem.