I am out of rhythm. Summer always greets me with its welcoming arms of rest and renewal, but in the name of rest and renewal, I neglect some of the basic rhythms of life. I am not rising early. I’m not going to bed early enough to rise early. There’s little to structure my days beyond my wife’s to-do list, bills to be paid, emails and texts to respond to and then delete, and the constant desire to spend as much time as possible with my wife and children.
I haven’t even made time to write. I have arrived at a castle called writer’s block, complete with a deep and impassable moat. I need to carve out some time to simply sit on the front porch again, coffee and pen in hand, and bumble about in my little black Moleskine journal. On that note, I offer you the first part of a two part poem titled “Meditations.” (I’ll post the second part early next week) Like a prayer for the morning hours, Lauds offers praise for the closed-eye, intensified sonorous experiences of a Monday morning.
Vincent H. Anastasi - 2019 I sit in the lid-closed twilight of a Monday morning between my children’s muffled voices just beyond the front porch window and the near-distant traffic hum of North Broad Street. Here, where the cool breeze stirs leg hairs to life, I’m enveloped in the unattended canticle of creation: the finches conversing in the Serviceberry, the catbird call down around the corner, the rhythmic repetition of crickets - this stillness inspiring ear-imaginings: the pollen-laden bees bumbling about the flowers, the spider humming to herself, patiently awaiting a late breakfast, web strung harp-like between the arborvitae and arbor where the kiwi vines stretch heavenward, once again, overzealous from rich soil and much sun.