Given that last week I tossed Billy Collins aside like a cat book in favor of T.S. Eliot, I feel obligated to return to him this week and let him know how much I love him.
I am also experiencing a newfound appreciation for Collins' poem "Morning." During Advent, Atticus and I put a new resolution into place: we're getting up at 5 a.m. (not every day, but several days a week) to get workouts done before the rest of the day kicks in.
This is, ahem, not a cakewalk for a night owl. (Here's the last time I posted about night owls, Billy, and me.) Yeah, yeah, I usually get up at 6 a.m., so it's not that much earlier. But hey, this new routine involves not only less sleep (one of my favorite activities) it also requires movement and energy for something other than lifting a coffee cup. This is a challenge, people.
And yet, I find there are several things I like about it. First, it's delightful not to have "WORKOUT" hanging over my head all day, a gloomy cloud I don't have time for. Second, when I've gotten up at 5, exercised, had breakfast, consumed
Their reaction? Not so much.
Tough luck, girls.
I may not be a true morning person in the Collins mold, but I have been seen lately buzzing around the house at unnaturally early times.
Thanks, Billy. You're your own kind of powerhouse. And I'm betting Eliot was a night owl.
by Billy Collins
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—
(Read the rest of the poem, here at The Writer's Almanac.)
The Poetry Friday round up is at No Water River.