A fan is whirring on the other side of the doorframe and the keys on my laptop feel foreign to me.

But my fingers, my fingers know just where to go. My fingers, these fingers, in time they reveal how I love, how I breathe, how I think, how I feel.

And I can feel blood pulse through my body’s small frame ’cause the heart’s doing overtime — and my mind’s just the same.

My heart beats in my head and down in my toe, and my gut is clenching with tension I need to let go.

The view, you see, it’s the same, this Minnesota snow, and I sit here unsure where this poem will go; but, fingers won’t stop just because I don’t know.

The plant on my desk I’ve saved a few times; and the once-limp leaves helps me realize that water and sunshine can be all that one needs.

The clock writes my day and I follow along; It’s like this, I whisper to the moon’s fallen path.

My fingers slow to a quiet stall.

I inhale.

And exhale.

Not knowing the rest.

But knowing this time, here at my desk, clipping the keys with a greedy arrest, has loosened the thing I’ve held in my gut:

It’s all that I need, as I turn my morning into poetry.