The Sentinel

Although it may not be apparent in my posts of late I have something of a love affair with words.  I don't know if other writers find inspiration, for lack of a better word, the way I do.  In the oddest moments, usually out of the clear blue sky, I see, or hear, a line or phrase that resonates in my head.  It is these random phrases that the poems I write tend to spiral out from.  I can't explain it.  It just is, and that little collection of words will rattle around in my head until I can put them on paper.  Sometimes the majority of the piece is there as though it is already written and I just need to transcribe it, other times the rest flows once pen and paper meet.  And I can see the words on the page, the physical shape they must take.  The words I write are evocative to me, I can only hope I capture the emotion, the vision, the sensations well enough for others to share those moments.
Last night as I turned off the tv and made my way to my final ablutions for the day and eventually to bed, doing the most mundane of tasks seven words flitted through my head: "Padding through the dark in stocking feet"  I almost got up to find pen and paper, knowing there was something there.  I also knew if there was something there (it is a rather ethereal "thing") it would be there come morning.  And it was, pushing aside my prayers with the need to be spoken (well, written).  The words are prayers, every one, hurrying out of my pen faster than I can write.

Padding in sock feet

through the darkened house

the everynight routine, battening down the hatches,

an odd nautical phrase for a prairie girl.

Finding my way through the stillness,

feet sure of the familiar floor, the maze of furniture.

Double check the locked door;

pale light from a street lamp steals through drawn curtains,

illuminating a sliver of carpet, pointing to another unfinished task

Tuck my book, faithful companion, under my arm

turn down the thermostat and continue on my silent patrol.

From the bedroom muted strains of a familiar song,

a small pool of light from a reading lamp, beckon.

A tender kiss on my sleeping daughter's brow,

smoothing the quilt up, a mother's good night blessing.

The light on the coffee maker glows,

the promise of a new day in warm, dark fragrance

greeting dawn in so few hours. The final check that all is well.

Shedding the last vestiges of the day night chilled skin seeks a warm cocoon.

One last light off, I reach for the memory of you, pulling close the down-filled surrogate.

Around me the house, quiet and dark,

another day is done.

The muted radio drowns out the voices murmuring in my head,

listing all I have not done, all I have missed, all my faults and failures.

I close my eyes and listen for your whisper singing louder:

Tomorrow will be here soon enough - begin again, you did the best you could, and I love you