treading

The morning seems easy... at least, as though, it should be simple. Singing birds, warm sun, purpose, and a rested head... the makings of a measured up morning. So, why do I tread the morning?

The afternoon... I seem to sink. My arms and legs are tired. My nose strains and barely clears the water. Reveille brings, sometimes, some company. I exit my car, put hand over heart, and feel the afternoon steam blowing on my face. The entirety of Post pauses for a single moment... and I am not alone. Our existences are so similar, but completely complex in their own rights. Even in one household, not one experience shares its likeness. It makes treading problematic.

The evening... a shoulder. A shoulder to rest my head, and all its concerns. A few hours of peace. A few hours when my feet touch the bottom, and the water carries me. A few moments of hair stroking, and sweet kisses. Tonight, every night, I rest on the shore... with sand in my hair, and under my nails.

Rinse... repeat...