In the Midst of Living

The story is written in the midst of living.
While making coffee, feeding the dog, taking out the trash.
During the drive to work, food shopping, working out, lunch with friends.
Through dinner, and an evening walk around the neighborhood.
While showering, brushing teeth, watching the 10 o'clock news.
In the midst of making love, drifting off the sleep.
In dreaming.

The ideas float in like morning fog and drift away as the sun rises above the dewy grass.
Snaking around the edges of my mind like a wisp of smoke.
Blowing away quickly in the wind.
Rising and falling like the tide, building like a storm.
Fading away like a memory, slipping from the mind like ice.

The lesson is in learning to listen, learning to hear, learning to see.
The significance of little things:
a shy smile, the touch of a hand, paper fluttering in the wind,
the smell of cinnamon buns, a rainy Tuesday, how the car won't start,
black coffee, yellow cheese, moldy bread, a chocolate bar,
the smell of a campfire, hotel sheets, a watermelon lollipop,
the sound of trickling water, a striking match, a doorbell,
sun shining through a window in the morning, storm clouds rolling in,
a yellowing photograph, a ripped dress, red high-heeled shoes,
a necktie, cigarette smoke, a bottle of wine,
the smell of fresh-cut grass, a trash can, lipstick on a collar,
the lingering scent of sex.

The story is written in the midst of living.
In the every day.