Fifteen hundred eighty-nine days
I write a poem the night before,
post it usually before six the next day
but I went to bed early, didn’t.
How could I have missed?
An evening at home, not on a ship,
not in a hotel, not traveling…
I messed up. Once upon a time
I’d have hurled recriminations inward,
agonized over the failure. But that was then.
Before recovery. Now I consider I was tired,
went to bed early, needed it, and the poem
written in the morning still makes this
fifteen hundred ninety days of serenity,
of growth, of acceptance.