A self, divided

     On this very humid summer morning it is a treat to be drawn by Virginia poet Joan Mazza's poem to the chill of a winter morning as the poet divides her energies, measuring her world using fractions.  

Fractions             by Joan Mazza

Half awake at 5 AM, I leave my half of a warm bed
and quilts to the dog, hold the banister to descend
the narrow stairs. The woodstove’s still warm,
only one-tenth the coals aglow under their blanket
of gray ashes. I’ve half a mind to let it be, use electric,
only a quarter more cost than wood. No labor.
Clean heat, with some say one hundredth
the pollution I contribute with my stove.   

As on any morning, I’m divided, each part vying
for the win. One fifth, the poet, says, “Write
first!” Another suggests I start bread dough
while the coffee’s perking, makes a list of chores
and soups. Third fifth calls from the studio
with ideas for new designs and color combos
I’ve not yet tried with paper. “Come back to bed,”
calls the fourth. “Don’t you want to know what

happens UNDER THE DOME?” Always last,
the weakest voice, “How about a brisk walk?”
Ignored by all. Still dark at seven, a quarter moon
rises over bare trees, branches divide against
the sky. Each day, the moon shrinks toward new,
while I wax to one fifth larger than I should be,
a tenth as wise as I’d hoped. First fifth wins two
thirds of morning hours, says, “Better than bread.”

Joan Mazza has the wonderful habit of writing one (at least) poem every day!  This link leads to a vouple of Joan's poems that protest for human rights.