Some mornings, this morning
I wake wrapped in helplessness.
Pain is. Tsunamis crash. War rage
Friends suffer. Diseases progress.
Clients give up. Death waits. Or doesn't.
I sit in bed, listen to my beloved breathe.
I know our days are numbered.
I cannot know their number.
I open bag of soft blue yarn, six skeins.
I wrap them into six neat blue balls.
Chances are the sun will rise and I
I will riise too and do what I can do.