Cubicle Zen 2

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It goes away somedays. The anxiety,  the fears of having missed out on smeling all those beautiful flowers - and you wait out endless summers for the backyard to be less barren.

Long hours of sleeplessness, grafted on the wings of the bird that is tucked away in its dry nest right now but will fly away tomorrow. At dawn.

A cane basket with books. Sweet fruits. Pale yellow eggshells. Somewhere else, a storm moves through a village. Breaking nests. Tearing books.

What I have seen in Denver. Across the empty sky, large paintbrush strokes. Clotted with purple, pink, green, and yellow clumps. Slowly softening as condensation mists over. Sunset.

Monday morning. A movie plan for Friday night. Monday evening.  Checklist for exotic groceries for scrumptious Saturday brunch. Tuesday afternoon slump. Game plan for lifelong project to begin Saturday night. After a dinner of very healthy steamed broccoli,  asparagus, and cup of mushroom and potatoes mashed with garlic, butter, and cream. Monday to Friday, then. Days. Beads onba rosary. Weekend.  It's a prayer.

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