Lying in bed, 6 AM, still dark. The heater rumbles on, 24 degrees out, brisk, not terrifying. My body is warm, my face is cool. With closed eyes I survey the inner woods for the next phrase, (phase?) the next arrangement of words, the next undertaking. Why undertaking? Sounds like undertaker; makes me think of grave digger or grave maker or a grave responsibility. Are we burying or unburying today? I wonder.
In the safety of bed, undercover/s of winter, eyes still closed, I drag an old shovel across the frozen earth and hit the ground. The ground hits back. I came here to write a poem from the comfort of not sleeping—not yet awake, and I find a cold hard place to open. Will it open?
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