by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Routine. Morning starts each day with sunrise.
Last night I dreamed of my lost (stolen) scarf,
woke with the sheet corner bunched at my neck.
Practiced yoga to save my soul, but later
technology still made me rebellious.
A break in the downpour saw a shadow
plummet from the spruce tree and hit the ground
as a crow, scavenging. All ways the world
feels collapsible catches my breath—
letters of words fill the day, wrap
themselves in the air around our bodies,
stumble off my tongue, a twinge of sweetness.
Spent afternoon drinking fresh-squeezed grapefruit
juice—and that’s as good as it gets, honey.