by Erin Schallmoser
sometimes you wake up in the morning and all you can know is the dark magic of still being alive
Sometimes you wake up in the morning and it’s effortless you just know life is a miracle
your heart grows fat with cosmic gratitude you move through your day like anything could be a poem the sparrows in the backyard the oak trees in the front the drool dribbling down your daughter’s chin the hours pass like honey and you smile so much your jaw aches comparison isn’t always the thief of joy but grief is always the ghost wavering and white running its cold fingers down the center
of our spines anxiety is always the sneaky bitch that has a better imagination than we do
at least that’s what the fear will have us believe sometimes you wake up in the morning and all you can know is the dark magic of still being alive and you must still name your birds and you must
still splash warm water on your face and eat an orange and say a prayer and pursue earnestness as a practice and not something to be tamped down: maybe no one told you this when you were a child
but we could always use more of your excitement more of your professions of love
more of you yes you I’m talking to you
© Erin Schallmoser
Erin Schallmoser (she/her) is a poet and writer living in the Pacific Northwest. Her work can be found in Nurture, Paperbark, Catchwater, and elsewhere. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Gastropoda, and is on Twitter @dialogofadream.
You can read more at erinschallmoser.com.
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