So hot today

Some days are meant for organizing.

So hot today.

I am grateful

For a light schedule,

Appointments I must make

But not keep

Quite yet.

There is accomplishment enough

In appointments made,

Penciled in

On the calendar

For two weeks

From now

Or even later.

Today promises full

Hmm. Three clients, one new. Two cats. Full day.

Today promises full.

I realize as I begin,

I only count the things

On the calendar,

Appointments and initials

I have written

On the square

That is July 14.

Then there is the kitten,

Still a guest

In a room of her own.

Then there is the older cat.

He lies strategically

Between our bedroom

And the guestroom,

Sprawled like a king.

Today promises full.

Discombobulation

I would prefer to have other things occupy my mind.  When something vital, like a professional calendar, goes missing, all the creative spots go missing as well.  They are taken up with anxiety. My daughter and I leave this afternoon with a friend and friend*s mother to visit schools in Boston. We all have different ideas of what such things mean: trips and college visits et al.  Meanwhile, the floors are being cleaned downstairs.  I cannot locate my calendar, which has our flight arrangements clipped into the front of it.  I think I must have put it somewhere safe.  Right.

I sit upstairs

While the floors are being cleaned

Underneath me.            

It began

It continues

As a day

Of discombobulation.

I try to settle

In an upstairs chair,

Green,

In the bedroom.

This room is already clean.

My calendar

Has gone missing.

I know it is somewhere

Downstairs.

Perhaps I can blame

The cat.

I consider the implications

Of a calendar

Lost in thin air.

I reconstruct it

In my head.

Again I settle back

Into the green chair.

I would like to write creative things.

Not this.

Buried treasure

I prepare for a new client, and the quiet day on Saturday.  Both are unknowns.  Both are buried treasure.  Advent seems a good time to look for buried treasure.

I search

For buried treasure

In the coming of the Christ child,

The Second Coming

Is buried

Just around

The corner.

The Mayans

May be onto something:

Let one calendar run out

Before creating

Something new.

This buried treasure

May be found

Only when the field

Looks empty.

This buried treasure

May require

Less light

To be found,

A quiet hopeful waiting

In the dark

The Mayans

The Mayans never meant their calendar to predict the end of the world.  If all goes well, I will be able to drive in December.  For at least three months, maybe.  

The Mayans never meant

The world would end

In December.

It was just as far

As the calendar went.

Still we look for signs

Of the final

Apocalypse

Written in stone.

The end of days

Pre-determined

Predicted

Written in stone.

We are not Mayan.

Yet even still

We hold the card

In our wallet

As possibility.

Come December

Most likely

We will find the new calendar

In the mail.