On good mornings, I wake
and start with faithful work
to build the wordless place:
two mugs of coffee, two slabs of butter,
cushioned space where a body
can recognize itself.

I do not think
therefore I am not
a hero or a failure
or a laborer
or a mind.

I breathe.
I am a body with mass heaving
as cold rushes past my nose hairs
and that old sadness moves
in and out
without comment.

My best work is my morning work
to make the wilderness
where large mammals meet,
watch one another,
and pass
into filtered light.