I write to you from within a constrained world.
Caring for my elderly, injured mother,
thinking only of the next task,
I make phone calls
and listen for her stirring in the night.

What do I have to do with the world
of presidents and wars?
I dimly recall the Strait of Hormuz
as I fill my gas tank and worry
about Medicare coverage.

There was a spot on Stumphole Bridge Road
where long ago (last week?)
the world opened up.
Wide farmland stretching up to misted hills,
folding and folding and folding into the horizon.

I am the cosmos unfolding
along purposeful, hidden paths.
It is my small, bright secret.
Like the woman and her coin,
I sometimes lose track of it.

I’ve swept the floor and lit a lamp.
I’ve just caught a glimmer
in the corner of my eye.

I continue to come across some old drafts as I clean out my Dropbox. Here is a poem that I can’t date exactly–maybe a couple of years ago?

I listened to a podcast today
about rare earth minerals.
It didn’t help my mood.
As the rage built inside me,
I imagined writing a poetic diatribe.

But I’m tired.
And my tooth hurts.
And I’m just so sad about everything.

What good would it do,
artfully arranging words while
the earth is cracked open
and the bodies of the poor are broken
and we here in America await news
of the next goddamn iPhone?

God damn the iPhone.
God damn the killing technology.
God damn me and you,
playing games and scrolling scrolling scrolling
on devices scratched from the bones of our
rare earth.

Growing up, I watched my dad check the door locks every night–and I picked up the habit from him. I’m probably worse than him, actually. I have my theories about why we each acquired this compulsion, which I won’t get into here. And though I don’t know where the clinically compulsive line is, I’m probably too close to it.

Besides, it sucks as a nightly ritual. This morning it occurred to me that this whole thing needs a reframing. Beginning tonight when I check the doors, I’m going to move away from that mild anxiety toward a nightly blessing. A far better way to end the day.

Bless this house,
Bless these doors,
Blessed are those
who walk these floors.

Shard of the sun
spalled into space,
hidden in bodies
in far-distant days.

In jubilant work,
we spend our new heat,
continuing creation.
The task is complete.

The fire within
cools to a cinder.
Other warm bodies
become the new tinder.

The cycle renewed,
the new morning dawns.
Heat calls to heat:
our body responds.

My father and I, we check the locks–
that’s what the Abels do.
Neurosis passed along the line
just like his Craftsman tools.

I see him there, on his rounds,
nocturnal sealing rite.
Here I am, securing doors
against encroaching night.

There was a time when I asked
what does this signify?
Now we double check the doors
and do not worry why.