The inner poetry

People are living their winter. The first great breath passed and left snow, freezing rain, and finally, a great cold that washed the sky for two days. I experienced some of those seasonal swirls in bed, then got up and worked in the house. I have had great difficulty falling asleep in recent days, both because of the common cold and for good and diverse reasons. For two nights, the City’s snowplows took, it seems to me, an eternity to scrape in front of my door, preceded by the military horns of the tugboats warning recalcitrant motorists to get out of the way before being towed.

This morning, however, the sun, a very cold, tight, invigorating like alcohol. I took out the garbage cans and bags from my work. Then I went around the block, time to notice the sun, the nervous smoke of the fireplaces, to hurry home, to put on my indoor clothes, to pack the pillows of my bed, to sit down and grab the laptop computer and, as I wrote, to feel the call of sleep.

I would still be sleeping, but everything calls for work, accountability, and responsibility. I promise myself to return to the practice of yoga, because, at this moment, with my eyes closed and my fingers fluttering on the keyboard, my head resting against the wall, I sense parallel universes whose air, moved by odorless perfumes, swells my lungs with frugal wisdom.