faux woodstove surprisingly I do feel warmer
your footsteps overhead my favorite sound
morning walk counting steps counting breaths losing count
found: 2 lost mittens one purple one black
just me and my yellow shovel then along comes a crow
relief finding a tissue in my coat pocket when I need it
she and I and the last two bowls of holiday soup
football game muted she dozes
from across the room your gentle snores
reminding myself I am only me
not for another year pumpkin pie
tomorrow I will wear striped socks this is all I know
over the long weekend we have both gotten blinder, deafer
stretching my ears for birdsong
anticipating snow I gather a pile of un-read mystery novels
every day waking to irises painted on my bedside table
my sister alerts me to a PBS special our shared nostalgia
grandmother's spoons I could use them if I polished them
my old jewelry box filled with toothpicks moving on
crossing an old bridge I can't ignore the rusty patches
morning walk welcoming the solstice exhale
at the window all afternoon lazy and content
yesterday is (almost) forgotten now here comes the sun
grandmother's photograph sometimes I forget to look
dust! impossible to blame the sunlight but still . . .
you wrinkle your nose this new tea is not pleasing
Buddhist monastery plastic orchids in window boxes
my neighbor's leafless tree adorned with Mardi Gras beads
flickering lights in my neighbor's window — remember fireflies
December 25th hour after hour candlelight
silent street no bells no crows
for this one day disconnecting from the world re-uniting with myself
10 minutes from home surrounded by a different silence
all day alone with a book and a strand of new/old pearls
with no effort something tight becomes something loose
singing a sweet song about my amygdala-dala-dala
embarrassing to admit: stargazing makes me nervous
early winter recipe for a plum pudding I will never make
narrow path stepping aside to let the old runner pass
this long red light enough time to inhale winter
what will I learn next — basket weaving? archery? the art of letting go?
what if I had had a brother — what then?
late afternoon too lazy to move from chair to couch no need to move
nothing is meaningless not even this empty pen
jump-up-kale so much like baby palm trees my neighbor's winter garden
this life every moment every moment every moment
paper and ink hold the mysteries writing in the dark
