Middle of the Night Vision

This morning I feel a bit scattered, with the knowledge that I soon need to get ready to go to the eye doctor for my yearly appointment.  Let me capture a few ideas here before they flitter away.

--Last night I woke up with the kind of middle of the night terror/anxiety that I associate with pandemics growing ever closer.  I did the thing I knew would not help:  I got out of bed and read some articles about the inauguration and the presidential activities around it, the presidential declarations.  

--I decided that I wasn't going to settle back to sleep with this reading, so I read about the fashion statements that people may or may not have been making.  I felt a vast sympathy for most everyone.  I like Melania Trump's severe looks, and I wish I could find a boater hat like that one; keeping one's eyes hidden seems like a good idea.  I saw the picture of Senator John Fetterman in his shorts and hoodie, in temperatures below zero, and I wondered if he has trouble finding pants that fit (a reason why you will often find me wearing shorts inside in the winter).  I have always assumed that men have no trouble finding pants that fit, but that may not be true.

--I saw a picture of an inaugural ball and wondered what happens if the couple doesn't dance well together?  Do they take dancing lessons for a few months before the inauguration?  I am not casting aspersions on any presidential or vice presidential couple, just thinking about my own inability to dance that way.

--I decided to try to go back to sleep.  I faced the window with its view of big trees and in the winter, the road beyond, with its lit signs.  As I laid down and stared out, all the lights went out.  I knew it was just a power outage, and sure enough, it was a momentary blip of darkness.  But still, for one brief moment, I thought, well, this is it then.

--I noticed that our bedroom clock was an hour and a half behind, and I wondered when that had happened.  Then I wondered if I had somehow reset the time on my watch, and it was actually the timepiece with the wrong time.  My poet brain tried to make metaphors, while the part of my brain that holds the various parts of my schedule in my head felt exhausted at the thought of getting up and getting to an eye appointment.

--And of course, my poet brain wants me to make a closing comment about vision and seeing clearly in times such as these.  My poet brain is also working on a poem about life lessons from medieval abbesses--stay tuned!