Four of Swords

a fifteen minute poem

It’s Monday morning and here I am, tense and tired.
Again.
The week got off to a disappointing start
before it even began.
I was awake all-night, reading for hours,
avoiding pain with words,
envying my bedmate’s slumber.
Mary Oliver says
“it’s not a competition, it’s a doorway,”
but I stood at that threshold –
desperate –
invited and welcome –
unable to enter.
It’s Monday and I’m already behind.
I did a Tarot reading.
My guides have a sense of humor:
The Four of Swords. Rest.
Hilarious.
I can see the person I want to be in my mind,
just out of reach,
on the other side of an impossible chasm,
the mythical land of Eight Hours of Sleep.
She looks relaxed and at peace.
In her skin. In her breath.
Not in her head, like me.

Photo by Samuel Isaac on Unsplash