Write a nocturne, it said. But it's so bright out, and I really am a morning person, I thought to myself.
But, I guess inspired a bit by Easter yesterday, and also my brief cleaning spree, I came up with this nifty little thing. I want to come back to this one and shape it, develop it some more. This one's got a little promise.
Nocturne for Mopping the Floor
You know, come morning, the sun
Will be back. This daily miracle
Streaming in through the dirty window,
Illuminating everything fingertip smudge,
Every baseboard still needing scrubbing,
Every crevice of grout discolored.
And so you mop. Your faith is greater
Than your exhaustion. Nothing
Is so dirty that can’t be scrubbed clean
Again, even the tiles marred by the mud
Of your own boots. In this world,
there’s always more dirt than bleach.
The lavender scent of soap
can only cover up so much.
The mop loses its threads to this good fight
Of your sin. The broom frays. Your muscles ache.
If only the night would cloak this room forever.
If only this cleansing were as simple
as kneeling on a cold floor, eyes closed,
a nimble tongue asking for forgiveness.