I check my wrist each morning.  Ah, 
sacred pulse.  No faint inflections.  
No hiccups.  Swallow vitamins, 
and Bee Pollen’s molten yield from 
a hive to heal abrasions.  I absorb injuries 
and harsh omens.  Crystal ball magic, 
aware new assessments premier each dawn.

Recharged, I resuscitate confidence.  
Dismiss dull grist, sort ideas from idleness. 
Scoff at routine, and do not watch the clock.  
Close eyes, lean in, prepared for the right time, 
the right ransom.  Right wind for takeoff 
into the celebration hour.  By afternoon, 
I add vibrant colors to rainbows. 

Nimble fingers spin the kaleidoscope – 
sparkles shuffle, I peep in and plunge 
into its flat light and float.  Its buzz 
renews rationale like knowing 
a fresh haircut can change everything – 
sporting a velvet hat improves my look, 
a green feather in the band.  

At dusk, I drift in my hammock, and answer 
the quick-click of stars, each thrumming 
its own fable.  Here I graph my ascensions 
in a diary: record which daily angels 
might pierce my side.  I can rest satisfied, 
allowing leftover honey to dry in my palm.
Winter breath, still truest evidence I live.