Something else

After my first double seizure I introduced my beloved to my therapist, thinking I had no idea what was next, and perhaps the two of them might need to interact if this seizure-thing moved on to something else. What was this something else, you might ask? I had no idea. I still have no idea. That's what makes it a something else.

When I sit with you

I figure I must make the most

Of the money I am paying.

This seems to mean

I must fill the air

With the most words possible,

To get the most

Out of our fifty-five minutes.

This morning I wonder

About my beloved.

He says he would like to sit

In a corner of your office

Perhaps even on the floor

Watch the light

Come through the windows

Drink in the possible

Fifty-five minute stop

To the usual

Before moving on

To the next thing.

Something in the air

I am still thrown off by the time change, the light change, the air change.  The only resolution is to wait until things clear.  I used to be able to push through such things.  No longer.  So I sit and get back in touch with the familiar around me.

There must be something

In the water

In the air

In the light

Today.

I am home from church

Under a blanket

In the blue chair.

My beloved is sound asleep

With the cat

On his chest.

The bush does not burn

In front.

I touch the familiar

Around me.

I wait.

There is something

In the water

In the air

In the light

Today.

I sit and wait

For something

To settle:

Sediment in the water;

Dust particles cleared

Out of the air;

The sun to set

More than an hour earlier

Than it did

Last week.

I sit and wait for that something

To clear,

Make way

For something else.