Here is where I find myself — in the patience of a moment detached from beginnings or ends simply being on the outer edge of the morning. I fold my legs under my desk the way I’ve done since I was in kindergarten, crisscross applesauce chants in my head. Slowly, I write as I focus on breath holds to combat any anxiety ruminating on the outset. I lose my mind in my thoughts only to paddle back a while later through writing a poem about a dream maybe one day I’ll share. This is the anchor to my day, I breathe in steady watching snow fall on a Sunday, it doesn’t feel like a Sunday as if Sunday had a particular feeling to attribute to it.
Kelly Severseike 