The beguiling buzz of my cell phone
interrupts my poetic reverie
like that infamous warlock from Porlock
whose summons plucked Coleridge back from Xanadu.
My daughter needs a priestess to release her,
allay the guilt of her sin. Well, that’s the gist
of her message: “I need to confess,” she says,
“I had a crazy meltdown on Mike last night.”
I sit and ponder the implications
of my adult daughter’s dilemma and I laugh,
realizing that, like a five-year-old girl
caught with her dimpled hand in the cookie jar,
she still needs her Momma to let her off the hook.
“You. Are. Absolved.” I text her, snickering.
“Say ten hail Mikes, and then you must perform
one ceremonial foot washing—yours,
not his—for stomping through sacred soil.
Then, breathe in deeply.” I demonstrate my words
as if she’s beside me…“hold it…just a little more…
now r—e—l—e—a—s—e slowly. Let all
your regrets soften and sink
into the cushion of tomorrow—which is
another day, with no mistakes in it.”
To think of Tomorrow like that—fresh
as the first winter snow, blanketing the world
in white silence, shimmering like a blank page,
It smells like the musky aroma of purple hyacinths
that freshen the air after a spring rain,
or sounds like the soft coo and squeak
of a newborn who is stretching and waking
after (finally!) a few hours of sleep.
That’s the taste of sweet, vine-ripened
strawberries lingering on your tongue! Yes,
I suppose, Tomorrow is
like that, if we remember. The thought
should embrace our shoulders, warm
our remorse into motivation
to enter the open page inviting
our words. Tomorrow has no mistakes in it.
“Yet!” I text before pushing the send button.
This is something even I need to remember.
The echo “Physician heal thyself” mocks me,
compelling me to forgive
the interruption, pick up my pen
and begin anew again…