Not Today

I keep telling myself the garage can wait.

The boxes stacked like vertebrae

aren't willing to be touched yet.

Even the broom in the corner

leans—it's tired of asking.

The air smells faintly of dust and rancid grease,

nostalgia wrapped in confusion,

an accident begging peace,

but not today.

The novel at my bedside glares.

The protagonist beckons me to travel her path,

tilts her head in askance from the dog-eared page.

She begs I follow the place she buried her fear

beneath a heaping mound of dirt,

the secret held in her hands—a hot stone burning.

I should follow her into that thicket,

but not today.

My painting in the corner glares—a knowing stare,

colors pleading to be born.

Paint spots spattered everywhere—

unfinished, unrepentant, incomplete.

It waits

for my hands to return,

for the moment I stop pretending

and listen.

I could resurrect the brush,

uncage the restless creature beneath,

a resurrection of sorts,

but not today.

Instead, I sit

in the soft middle of it all,

hearing the calls ricochet and ping around me

like thunder before the strike.

Maybe

this is its own kind of understanding—

the pause before the next becoming,

the breath I owe myself

before haste steals my mettle.

Everything can wait a little longer

(spoken whispery)

while I align with the beats of my own pulse,

but not

today.