after Mary Oliver

Every morning unfolds itself, first in strips of charcoal linen,

​        then swaths of slate, gauze of gold.​        The great unwrapping.

And I don’t want to get out of the bed that has cocooned our body

heat—and the dog’s—into a furnace, ​        but there is the kettle to warm,

the gingersnap Chai tea for tongue to try.

​​        The poem will not write itself!

I’ve been reading about shadow and evil in fairy tales and greeting mine

in the diffused light of December dawns. It’s important that I don’t tell you

​​        what they are, that they stay silhouetted in their funeral shrouds.

But I’ll tell you, every night I gorge on pomegranates. Every morning calls me

back to the land of the living. ​        And if you peek under the door,

in the pinhole of the lock, you’ll find every poem is a constellation

​​        guiding me home.

Prompts used (tags are the poets’ IG handles):

@theconstantpoet - “the great unwrapping” @itsashenelthing - “and I don’t want to go, but” + “constellations that guide me home” @loisofthehearth - “Write a gratitude poem for simply waking. After ‘Every Morning I Try Again’ by Mary Oliver.”