The reflection of the full moon shone brightly through the open shutters into the dresser mirror directly into my dreaming eyes waking me from a sound sleep.  I reached over to Al’s side of the bed for a familiar snuggle, but he was already up and dressed most likely padding along the chilly and quiet streets on his morning run.  I lay there a moment trying to discern whether or not he had turned on the heater to chase away the nighttime cold when the aroma of freshly ground coffee made its way up the stairs under the door and into my olfactory nodes. 

            

I threw back the covers, rolled over on my side and put my feet on the carpet.  My feet fingers found last night’s quickly tossed-off slippers.  Slowly and somewhat stiffly I made my way quietly downstairs so as not to awaken Dodger, our relatively new German Shepherd rescue dog. While he’s a sweetheart, it’s still too early for his affectionate head-bumps for petting. The heater had warmed the rest of the house except the cold wooden floor.  Clunk, air is warming inside the drum once more.  Fingers are clicking on the keyboard while the refrigerator hums its frigid lullaby in the kitchen.  My Montana clay, blue glazed coffee mug sends welcoming steams of coffee to my nose. I put down the computer, settle into the warm embrace of my favorite reading chair, pick up the multi-highlighted book, The Last Best Cure: My Quest to Awaken the Healing Parts of My Brain and Get Back My Body, My Joy, and My Life, about Donna Jackson Nakazawa's journey to heal her autoimmune disease and begin my morning reading ritual.  

On yet another morning, a Sunday if I remember correctly, I wrote this poem:

Solace of Normality

There is no darkness here

In the comfort of normality

The soothing routine of rustling paper

Like the dog’s lick of your salty hand

I listen to your news report with one ear

As the other hears the toc and tic of the

Inherited grandfather that

Watches over our daily lives from

The comfort of his corner

Mermaids swim in the sun shadows near the door

While the fridge releases its cubescence to

The rhythm of the coffee drips

I yearn to dive into the deep blue

Sea of the tabletop

With its Christmas Cactus island

Providing shade on the shoreline for

The resting fruits beneath.

Beyond the glass, our green suburban forest

Provides protection from the

Encroaching thick and malodorous air

Produced in the paved and wired valley below.

Gardeners now with their machines at full throttle

Rip the sea of green grass and weeds

That has tried so desperately to leech

Sustenance from parched infertile clay

Western Waste collects the

Swill, the empty containers,

The remnants of our materials lives

While I comfortably sit embraced by roses

And persimmons with fountain pen and

Fresh journal pages in my lap

There is no darkness here

In the comfort of normality

There is only the rustle of the paper

And the toc-tic-toc of the timeless clock.