Who will be the first to disrupt my strategic plan?

Pascha (by Jim Gupta-Carlson)

(Today's NaPoWriMo.net prompt calls for an "aubade" -- a poem of the morning. The site proposed making the poem about Monday mornings, in particular, and proposed the Bangles song Manic Mondays and a grim Philip Larkin poem "Aubade" as potential sources of inspiration. Larkin caused me to giggle, which probably was not the poet's intent, particularly a line about the daybreak bringing each of us one day closer to death. I ended up thinking about time, and my never successful efforts to manage it.)



The sky lightens;
the grip of cat paws on skin tightens,
wake up, wake up, wake up!
The birds are chirping and soon the roosters will crow
as the hen clucks rise in crescendo
demanding release from the night's safety of coop
and yet another day to free range over the receding heaps
of melting snow.

It is Monday, a week with a clean slate so far.
I enter the morning with three strong cups of coffee,
a notebook and smooth rolling pen
mapping out my strategic plan.

The goats bleat.
They are waiting -- as are seeds rolling impatiently in paper packets --
for the snow to melt
and the ground to thaw, yielding
buds of thistle, shamrock, and clover, amid
sprigs of spring wheat.

I exit my house and enter my car.
"Manic Monday" jangles on.
In my office, e-mail -- at rest over the weekend --
has kicked into high gear.
To dos become one hopes,
and one hope,
one prayer,
one wish as the solidity of the strategic plan
melts into air.