The view this morning from my living room
is dappled sun beneath a twining vine,
conveying coolness, smoothness through a loom
of photosynthesis. Such comfort’s mine,
I feel provoked. I take it as a sign
of natural love, of vegetation’s kiss.
Right now I’m feeling well, alert and fine,
and hope to recognize more days like this.
I’m calling it arthritis in my knee,
though I possess no medical degree.
But I retain a patient memory
of diagnosis and failed therapy,
three decades past. It’s giving tweaks to me
on rising but it likes activity.
I’m four years shy of 80 now, and nurse
the knee myself, in hopes it won’t grow worse.
Magnificent as mountain vistas are,
commanding as the ocean tends to be,
I seldom have to travel long or far
to be enchanted with the scenery
encountered walking in my neighborhood,
in shades of weather-tempered greenery.
I stride with butterflies. The ways are good.
I pocket nature’s kind gratuity.
My gardener is missing working weeks.
The man’s unwell and though I think he’ll mend,
for now I’m not portraying one who seeks
to hire expertise. For I intend
to daily do a bit. The pokeweed speaks
each morning, even now too strong to bend,
while I regard its toxic berried height.
Four limbs a day I hack, to see some light.
So do I dare present this piece of work
to him, to read and ponder? Is it fair?
I plumbed my recall, inking like a clerk.
So do I dare?
I stripped away the fluff and didn’t spare
my ego, or the father’s rolling jerk.
I tried to lay the circumstances bare.
But mostly I dispelled the irksome murk.
I hope I give, he reads, we clear the air.
I’m striving to defeat what legends lurk.
So do I dare?
We lunched and we conversed about old age:
the loss of stamina, the rise of ache.
And our devices eavesdropped like some sage,
that quietly receptive. But it’s fake.
For afterwards my phone produced a page
with remedies some advertisers make.
Hibiscus tea to pee, they’d have us think,
and extract of persimmon, lest we stink.
It didn’t change as I grew more mature –
to watch the work I scanned art therapy.
I saw the play and felt like a voyeur;
I didn’t want to process agony.
I’m longing for more objectivity.
It’s great, but could be finer’s my refrain.
I think the acts should play in privacy,
so I don’t love the drama of the Dane.
She must get off on yelling, I conclude.
Her cable died again, and when the Tech
no-showed, she called and castigated, rude
and adamant that she’d not wait three days.
Demanding supervisor time, she booed,
she threatened, but her calls were not returned.
At last she found a kinder voice, that skewed
to care, and she agreed to ink a check
upon the date posed first, with gratitude.
My yoga mentor’s dealing with a five
year old right now, and for today she said
that Going on a Bear Hunt will revive
me some, and so I started it instead
of videos for older folk. Now I’ve
a favorite book replaying in my head,
and upping-downing made me feel as young
as lilting language rolling ‘round my tongue.
Determined to objectively describe
a union that engendered both of you,
I won’t exaggerate. A diatribe
is furthest from intent to tell it true.
Attempts to justify each act, imbue
the character with motive, justify
our ways and represent each point of view
results in complicating both. Oh my.
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