I sit with presence this garbage truck morning -
presence including the Christmas cards spread on the table
waiting for inspirational notes -
gifts waiting to be pulled from bags,
wrapped in paper,and spangled in ribbon -
I am a letter in an envelope of fog.
Green leaves give my eyes a screen to climb.
as I realize how hard my illness was on family and friends.
It was why it was so hard for me to tell them.
I knew what they would endure.
I had no choice.
They were hanging on the side,
of a ship that did not sink,
wanting to know what to do.
Even now, I sometimes pause,
stymied by a word like envelope.
Does it have an e on the end, or not?
Enveloped in a state where nothing registers inside,
I am the Dear John letter sitting bagged
in the dead letter office,
wanting to get out,
and enter the mobile, with an e,
and floating poles,
activity and action of brain
can I let myself go into the feelings,
note, I type “the,” not "my," or mine -
may I enter -
The gate is closed,
snowed in for now -
I’ll wait for summer and glacial melt.