The question of where to begin
is preceded by: what do I believe
is my purpose, acknowledging
aliveness and what that means
on scales large and small?
How much time do I have
(how much do I think I have),
what can be done with it, and
how do we ensure both a roof
above our heads and a wheel
of brie at the ready. Necessities.
Rosemary crackers makes three.
Fig jam makes four, but
I was not born for counting;
instead, purpose reveals itself
as testing the Universe with
parts picked apart as flawed
to discover time and again
it is this marred condition
the Universe responds to.
Full circle: where to begin?
There is not a where, really
just a when; only time and
who knows how much of it
other than: it is here now.

(written February 2019 and intended as the first post on this site, but I changed my mind at the last moment in favor of First Photographs, which was the first poem I read aloud to those close to me, and held this poem as a draft until now)