The Wrong Time

There’s something about sitting down to write my morning missive at 9:50 that seems decidedly wrong. Usually, I’m up and at’em early, anywhere from 5:30 to 7. But today was a day of fasting labs for a lipid panel, and the lab didn’t open until eight, and I slept as long as I could to avoid any hunger pangs. I guess in my old age, I don’t trust myself anymore, and I did find myself wondering how a cup of coffee could throw off a lipid panel.

Anyway, I got home from the clinic, ate breakfast, took my meds, checked my emails, took a phone call or two and now here I am writing at mid-morning. Oddly enough mid-morning is not a good time to write. Its roughly akin to seeing a photographer out taking pictures at noon. The light’s horrible. It’s directly overhead and there’s no drama. There’s no drama at mid-morning either. Early morning and the long light of sunrise is the time of poetry. Mid-morning is for sweat.

And I have sweaty things to do. I’m pulling up the stones of the old native plant garden because the native plants are no respecter of stones, and I’m going to use them around the trees on the other side of the drive. We like to have plants under our trees and stones around them, with the lawn as a footpath. The tree in question is a chinquapin oak that stands next to a little garden I put in several years ago along the fence. It’s destined for expansion because the oak has been struggling and it needs fertile ground. I will oblige, the old garden will reach out and embrace it, and with that my obligation is fulfilled. Words are written, and now to go sweat.