This poem is, simply, an attempt to capture a moment this morning while I sat and wrote.

I have been working on re-tooling my morning habit. Of late that habit has been wake, take the dogs out and feed them, get coffee, do a Sudoku puzzle, and then, if there is time, write.

Even describing that process makes the act of putting writing last very conspicuous. Almost, as if, that is the least important part of my morning ritual.

My new habit, still taking shape, is to incorporate writing in my journal and reading poetry in the routine.

My issue is focus. I read yesterday that about seventy-five percent of people feel like they have a focus problem. (note–this is a NYT link and may not allow you access. You could also look at the source material .)

My son Oliver got me a gravity timer for Christmas and it has been a game-changer for my ability to stay focused.

This gravity charger uses the orientation of the cube to start and stop a count-down timer. There are four built-in timers: 5, 10, 30 and 60 minutes.

I have been using the five minute timer to keep myself fully engaged in a task for a full five minutes.

Here’s what that looks like:

• five minutes to free-write in my journal
• five minutes to read poetry
• five minutes to free-write
• five minutes to continue reading poetry
• five minutes to write out one of these poems long-hand

At that point I can decide if I want to do a puzzle. Today I chose to write this poem.

That list reads almost like a workout in the gym, sets of an exercise repeated to gain strength over time.

Perhaps that is what might happen here.

My word for this year is focus. (Once a year our family take time at a meal to all pick a word for the year to keep in mind as a goal.)

I think that I might have ADHD. My family definitely thinks I do. I bounce a lot from thing to thing in a distracting way both to myself and others.

I’m going to let this poem today stand on its own without commentary on what I think it is trying to do.

I hope that you find it meaningful.

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Unwarming

Coffee—hot, or, it might be, 
cold—this morning, sits be-
fore me, unwarming, a 
warning that the day’s about

to take flight, and might, just
dash right into these bright-
lit windows, as that bird did,
now dead—just—warming in 

the morning sun.

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