Morning, Taos Inn

Dear Ones, this one is a struggle. After I wrote the first draft of this poem, I wrote what I meant to say in my journal. Every draft is an attempt to merge those two things into one. I meant to write something about the need to integrate difficult emotions, rather than cast them aside. And here is where the draft stands:

As this section of the planet tips

toward another sunrise,

the sound of tires on wet pavement,

doors opening down the hall,

footsteps on a time-smoothed wooden floor

unwrap the last of this anxiety shroud

in which I have slept for months.

I walk,

itching from the touch of clean mountain air.

Behind me, the shroud trails, dissolving,

bit by bit over dirt, leaves, tree roots.

Tonight, when I take off my shoes,

I will find its last luminous white square

tucked underneath my toes.

This, I will hold in the palm of my hand,

grafted onto my skin.