Slowly, slowly
my days are moving
toward what
I want them to be
soon, that table
which causes me
because it reminds me of my father
will be gone

I will arise at dawn
and put on a pot of soup
stretch my limbs
like a plant unfurling
in the light of the window,
surround myself with stories
and salacious old women
and know the peace I have found
is my own

Shannon M. Turner
originally published January 2017
here on this blog