Down near the bottom of the crossed-out list of things you have to do today,

between "green thread" and "broccoli" you find that you have penciled "sunlight."

Resting on the page, the word is as beautiful, it touches you as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present he had sent you from some place distant as this morning -- to cheer you up,

and to remind you that, among your duties, pleasure is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing Do you remember? that time and light are kinds

of love, and love is no less practical than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire? Tomorrow you may be utterly without a clue

but today you get a telegram, from the heart in exile proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists, the king and queen alive, still speaking to their children,

• to any one among them who can find the time, to sit out in the sun and listen.

Note: On the coldest North Eastern day so far (walking out this morning, my face hurt), I read this poem at lunch, and see the rift that has been developing between how I perhaps have begun to live (sans reading), and how I really desire to live (immersed in act of accelerating consciousness, i.e., in the poetic act). And then repeat the word "sunlight" to myself a couple of times.