The air is still

The tree outside my window: still slanted

I greet the day with my red pen

I practice writing

bearing witness

to my clumsy anxiety

while our country swells with misdeeds

If I can stop myself mid-misdeed & apologize

correct my acts, turn to love

will it matter?

Will being careful with my small crew

ripple out?

I stop reading most news in favor of

shoring up my own goodness

tired from this swollen country

I practice writing upon waking

I practice forgiveness of

my clumsy anxiety,

the way I want my loves

to show their gifts to the world

when they want to only show themselves

to themselves

The air is still

the tree outside my window:

still slanted

I greet the day with my red pen

I practice writing

bearing witness to the slanted tree.