A Morning Without Disaster

Maybe the cosmos isn't out of tune. 
Maybe you're out of tune with your own 
broken heart. 
The sun is taking a Sabbath today. 
No flares, no drama. 
The stars recline in orbits of repose 
like elders on a summer porch 
in white wicker chairs. 
Without really going anywhere 
the constellations wander 
and whirl their parasols 
very slowly.  
Look, it's happening again, 
just as it did one moment ago, 
this gentle flow of the silent stream 
you never slow down enough 
to float on. 

Your mind is the melodrama. 
The apocalypse won't happen 

out there. 
It happens just beneath your breastbone
in this valley between breaths. 
Now wash your doom away 
with gentle tears. 
This isn't the end, or the beginning, 
just another day on earth, 
a planet where every sparrow 
is an empath, 
every fawn an indigo child 
with star-splashed fur. 
Maybe this is the morning 
to celebrate your slightly 
bonkers yet uniquely gifted 
human bones. 
Because you're here. 
You arrived in this moment. 
You're a survivor.