The Shape of Ideas

Every morning I wake up
stretch my still tired bones
hoping for middle-age creaks
to have magically disappeared

Overnight      I dream of sun—
basking my skin in the warmth
twirling in my swivel chair
trying to guess every time

I pass the sun     and feel her rays—
my flowers blooming, my grass
greening beneath her glow
and then I wake up to mud

Everywhere   the thick black muck
stuck to everything, even
my swivel rocker needed 
to be put away and covered 

Up     to my ankles the mud
rises and enters my soul;
I wonder if, like the lotus,
I will ever emerge to life

From under the mud      I begin
to rise and grow; soon I am
wading at the edge of beauty
not thinking about the hard

Hard work      has followed me here,
but it’s the mud in my bones 
that fortifies, birthing beauty
and wonder from endless rain.

—Carla Picklo Jordan