My alarm clock silenced, I wake to peals of birdcalls
ringing in my ears. I
train my eyes on the day ahead
of schedule, beating Helios to the punch.
Able to pack my lunch, brew coffee, peel an orange
in one long strip, like the stripe of citrus horizon.
It blushes, then brightens, like a new lover—
good morning, sunshine—discovered just last night.
Its beauty blinds me to the order of the day…
first breakfast, then lunch, then dinner,
a linear reality that alights upon me
only at the lonely midday
hour.
A love turned sour, I see and flee from its heat and intensity.
So suddenly unforgiving, this orange Oracle that sets
the tone for the week ahead, always a clone of the last.
Basking turns to asking, pleading, deflecting
the blame, wanting—needing—a
wider time frame.
Eyes burning, cheeks shining, whining for longer days.
Bargaining with fading gold, I hold on to the last rays of hope
for productivity, until
it dawns on me
that the day, but nothing else,
is done.
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