I am
never good enough on Sundays,
from mornings stretching out like my arms reaching over my head to shake off sleep
to evenings wishing the sun would go down just a little slower
instead of moving steadily like a rollercoaster creaking up the tracks to a peak.
As I sit here, poised at the top of one day,
staring at the week I am about to plummet into,
I can't help but wonder
when the ride will drop me off at
the next stop, and I can't imagine
that I won't be too tired to throw my arms over my head
tomorrow morning
but
when I think about
the way the wind will blow in my face
and the pages turning over in my stomach
the descent sounds less like falling,
and more like jumping
forward, to a day where I will throw my arms
out to lift the baggage that sits on either side of me
and carry it through the week.
My hands flex and curl
reaching for strings and ink
to sketch out the plunge ahead
as the stars whisper that
even they will dive down with the curve of the earth. On Monday
I will be enough.