Yes
by Rachel Greenberg
Yes to the birds that wake me.
Yes to the slumber that won’t leave me
that I must shake off my shoulders
with last night’s dreams. Yes to the grittiness
of grounds in my coffee. Yes to the bitterness
of news as it greets me. Yes to the tasks at hand
the dishes to wash, the messes to clean
the laundry that piles up.
Yes to the coolness of autumn,
to the drips of rain that make slick trails of dew on my skin
and churn the ground into moist cake.
Yes to the puzzle of paperwork
that scares me
with its promise of consequence and finality.
Yes to taking care of business. Yes to the business at hand.
Yes to all of it.
Yes to all messes.
Metaphysical and physical,
Messes of the heart and messes of spirit
messes with money
and the mess of gooey maple syrup
drying under my kitchen counter
attracting everything in its orbit.
Yes to all of it
and especially the cleaning up of it.
Yes to the work and the woof of it.
To the labor of love and the labor of necessity.
Yes to the tears and frustration
and the kiss on the forehead that cools it
and the welcoming arms that soothe it
and the open heart that doesn’t turn away
from the mess of this life.
Yes to the slumber that won’t leave me
that I must shake off my shoulders
with last night’s dreams. Yes to the grittiness
of grounds in my coffee. Yes to the bitterness
of news as it greets me. Yes to the tasks at hand
the dishes to wash, the messes to clean
the laundry that piles up.
Yes to the coolness of autumn,
to the drips of rain that make slick trails of dew on my skin
and churn the ground into moist cake.
Yes to the puzzle of paperwork
that scares me
with its promise of consequence and finality.
Yes to taking care of business. Yes to the business at hand.
Yes to all of it.
Yes to all messes.
Metaphysical and physical,
Messes of the heart and messes of spirit
messes with money
and the mess of gooey maple syrup
drying under my kitchen counter
attracting everything in its orbit.
Yes to all of it
and especially the cleaning up of it.
Yes to the work and the woof of it.
To the labor of love and the labor of necessity.
Yes to the tears and frustration
and the kiss on the forehead that cools it
and the welcoming arms that soothe it
and the open heart that doesn’t turn away
from the mess of this life.
Rachel Greenberg is a poet, memoirist and storyteller who lives in Western Massachusetts. She has a private therapy practice and her work as a therapist and love of wild spaces informs her writing. Her work has been published in The Sun Magazine and Mama Stew.