I have been busy

on a holiday track,

dangling, cruising on gondolas

sharing airspace with hawks

in an out in and out of onsens, hot baths,

trains, almost closing doors, every mode of transportation.

There is so much exhaust.

 

I have missed cards going into mailboxes,

left out whole loaves,

forgotten to get in touch with best friends

having babies

little delicate hands finding their mouths

& growing overnight.

 

Not to mention, there is a special

mother turning sixty.

 

I am depleted,

running on cheese & crackers,

wine & elevators that go up to 350 meters.

 

I have winced on buses careening curves

mountains, passes, sharp banks

of almost-getting sick daughter

who needs a better route,

but does well jumping on hotel beds.

 

We eat well, taste our way through a myriad of teacup size-portions

like French petit fours-meets sushi or kaiseki, the season of taking our meals like a queen.

We lovelies on holiday fall into bed, barely in pjs.

 

Such tough work,

I feel like a moth

piggy backing her babies,

running errands to clouds

crossing off dandelion seeds

and weeds

trailing dust with every inch, laugh, clink;

there is no where left to land but in bed, perhaps.

 

I do not fold at the waist or lay myself down—

Tonight it is enough simply to crumble

& turn out the light.