Someone has to care enough
to do the grunt work.
Haul up the tree
Heave. Grunt.
Whip up the shortbread.
Beat. Grunt.
Dig out the toboggans, drive to the hill.
Wheeee! Grunt.
Cook the turkey. Shop. Wrap the presents.
Grunt
Grunt
Grunt.
Some years the off-stage magicians are silent,
but this year you can hear us
grunt.
It is a wearisome year
Each new day weighs heavier
than yesterday.
Tonight amid the Christmas decorations
grief is hanging on our tree;
loss pummels
hopefulness.
Sadness hollows out my chest,
crushes my shoulders,
lodges in my throat.
Longing overwhelms.
There is no comfort
here, only more memories
of what is gone
who is gone
when is gone
where is gone.
Tonight is too much to bear,
so I’ll climb into bed and
trust tomorrow brings
solace and that much lauded
peace of the season.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The alarm. Snooze hit five times.
The feet unsteady.
The eyes blur the room.
Shoulders ache.
Ankle twinge.
Tired. So tired.
A good day to stay inside.
Light a fire.
Bake something to take
pandemic weariness away,
But the mask is on
Happy face
the work day
awaits.
when the students have left,
around the building:
faces crease with concern
bodies droop with fatigue
eyes anguished.
How long can the facade hold
when everyone’s
barely upright?
I am dissolving
melting
unraveling
falling
blinking
broken
ready
for
rest.
Too exhausted to care
whether the sensitive child is traumatized
by my insistence that she complete the
assignment as required.
Too exhausted to laugh
at the absurdity of end of term panic
after six weeks of poor attendance and disorganization.
Too exhausted to do more
than get through the day myself,
with nothing left for under-achievers who think
I should go over and above for them.
Too exhausted today to care
more about student success they they do.
There’s always tomorrow.
Stacks of articles, demanding my brain
focus and think logically.
Assignment instructions I just want to avoid.
My students drive me crazy when they show this sentiment.
But then, I’ll actually get the work done
(on time)
despite the procrastination,
which they frequently do not.
So many papers. So tired from report cards and marking stacks of late assignments and prepping for a new semester and February.
So.
Tired.
But the end is in sight.
I can’t give up now.
Like tepid water
we’re floating in
the faintest current,
flowing toward
a trickling drain
that empties
us into hollow
cavities
in evening.
slow September 25, 2012
Tags: exhaustion, gladioli, metaphor
I feel like I’m moving in slow motion this week. All sorts of things are happening, and I’m watching them with a dull, glazed head. I have so many things I need to get done in the next couple of weeks, but I am too foggy to concentrate on them.
I’m reading some interesting books, I’m getting lots of exercise, I’m sleeping more than I have in ages. There is no good reason for me to be out of it.
I feel a bit like I am represented by the gladioli on my entry table. They’ve drained their water, and have dried out, but they have formed such interesting, squiggly, abstract shapes, and faded into such an interesting colour that I haven’t had the heart to toss them out! If I get some energy tomorrow, I’ll take a photo so you can see what I mean.
In the meantime, what interesting thing in your house represents you, these days?
As promised, here are my tired glads:
.
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