Instead of writing a poem today, I'm going to read some Keats.
Instead of worrying I am going to smile.
Instead of going out into the snow I will stay where it's warm, drink Red Raspberry tea and talk to my sister about the ways of things.
Music is a mystery.
The sound of a small violin permeates the void.
The pipes haven't frozen because I left the faucets dripping:
the snare drum of my sink
trading fours with
my bathtub percussionist.
Instead of misery I will handle mercy,
dance it through my fingers like change in my pocket
before the washing machine eats it all.
