"Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor..."

...a poem

Photo Cliff Scholz

Sitting crosslegged on the kitchen floor in the morning
clarifies all things; you won’t get to this point in any other room
or from any other perspective. Chairs don’t work.

The cool linoleum explains that you would normally be standing
here, where things are made for use and not repose. Only cooking 
and washing dishes and opening cupboards make sense, 

and that is why you must sit precisely here, leaning back 
on the refrigerator if you will. Being in a place of doing.
I suppose we could try entertaining in the bathroom —

that would bring out new truths or old forgotten ones. Truth, an 
exotic animal, succumbs to grief in any cage or habit of the mind.
That is what these rooms are: habits become solid walls,

and that is why we find ourselves so often dying and not living 
in them: we are the exotic animal that needs its wilderness to grow.
Descend into the valley between the countertops! 

What you find on the floor will be so much more
than ever your feet alone would guess. Kitchen memories will stir
and blend and fold into the batter of your mind from before 

you made your home a comfortable cage. This is where 
I spent my morning today, not too long, but long enough to say,
“Sit crosslegged on the kitchen floor. Don’t act your age!”