As I said yesterday, my father died 38 years ago today. I check out Ted Kooser's poem for January 4th. It fits.
Four below zero.
My wife took an apple to work
this morning, hurriedly picking it
up and out of a plastic bag
on the kitchen counter, and though
she has been gone an hour,
the open bag still holds in a swirl
the graceful turn of her wrist,
a fountain lifting. And now I can see
that the air by the closet door
keeps the bell-like hollow she made
spinning into her winter coat
while pushing her apple through a sleeve
and back out into the ordinary.
May your dreams, both day and night, back in and out of the ordinary, and all that might be and is.