I had the unit cleaned two days ago.
It’s almost like I knew the air would chill.
Today the inside temperature – below
the 67 mark – did not until
late afternoon reach 70, although
I put the fireplace through morning drill.
This early cold is nothing I remember,
but I’m igniting fire in September.
It’s like a trope – “I’ve never been this age
before.” I say it often cause it’s true,
and though we’ve books and references to gauge
the drastic strokes and lapses that accrue,
I write about the minor stuff – a page
on aches or stuttered sleep, a journal through
diurnal slippage. I’ve a new intent –
collecting words addressing this descent.
September brings the Garden Cosmos up.
Unplanned or sown the lanky volunteer
emerges, shoots to height, and sprouts a cup
of purple that surrounds a central sphere
in split-pea hue bedecked with yellows. Near
the blooms the hummingbirds and bees are seen
in flit and flutter sipping autumn cheer,
a-frolic in a yard’s last gasp of green.
Concerned about his health at 68,
for though he comes from hearty stock, he’s slow
to move beyond a dog walk from his gate
for 15 minutes out and back, I know
if he’d put effort into air, he’d grow
an exponential way away from death.
I hold his hands, and sit him straight, and show
him half a dozen ways to take a breath.
I plucked my favorite tractor cap, and wore
it several times to shield my face from sun.
I centered it and walked out my front door
and, actually, I found it kind of fun.
Protected (nose and hair), I looked for more –
I thought I’d several others than the one
(I don’t buy much, but seldom throw away).
I found the old collection yesterday.
Awake 4 times before the sun arrives,
and years beyond dope-smoking, means you get
to screen a slew of dreams and what survives
your surfacing are scenes that don’t upset
but also don’t dissolve. You form archives
that last at least until your throat is wet
with morning coffee. If you jot them down,
you trap vignettes from sleep with verb and noun.
Air quality this summer has been great.
Prevailing winds have not been acting weird.
No fire has besmirched our normal state,
and though eccentric cloudscapes have appeared
at times, most mornings I appreciate
the air’s caress on neck and shoulder, steered
by breeze, and after sigh as Zephyr nods.
Ignoring ills, I thank the weather gods.
I never loved the roses in my yard.
Somebody planted them and made them grow
outside the kitchen windows, like a guard
that stood when I came 20 years ago.
They brandish clever thorns and scanty scent.
They droop in vase and petals don’t unfurl.
A cut bud dies unopened, table-bent
(no matter, for I’m not a bouquet girl).
The gardener never pruned the plants enough.
He had to ill-retire. I began
to spend most mornings minutes making room
for sun on plants I like. It wasn’t tough
to clear a space outside my window span,
and now the roses seem to beg to bloom.
I recollect from someone in my youth
that first the year begins but that the end
falls 10 days later. Can that be the truth?
I can’t find evidence of it, but tend
to grant it presence anyway, defend
the notion that it’s time to fix each flaw
I showed, and sanitize for boons that pend:
an interval of overlap for awe.
I’ll buy five items in the local store
and tote them home by paces, rail, and street.
Replenishing a shelf and crisper drawer,
my eating options then will be complete
for weekend time and even one day more.
It’s probable I’ll still take to my feet,
but need to purchase won’t impose or draw
on me, as I consider days of awe.
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