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.
I thought on marriage several months ago.
I’m not the only one who senses he
romances an idea and chemistry
attracts him yet, a bit. But he won’t throw
himself in risk or speak what he might know.
Instead he’ll just esteem our history,
mythologize a tale of him and me,
and hide himself within a Paulist show.
I wish he’d clear his vision, but in truth
I never could consent. I’ll do without.
My ever friend is trustworthy and bright,
but I had cause to check him in our youth.
And though I never minded he’s devout,
I won’t espouse a humble acolyte.
At half past 7, as the heat wave broke,
I walked outside to compost coffee grounds.
What struck me to a standstill and awoke
attention was the sky. There were no bounds
except the rims of trees. Nobody spoke
to me and morning birds refrained from sounds.
I fed on silent beauty, minute awe,
and momentary peace at what I saw.
Composing this September 9th, I’ll try
to mention other subjects than the heat.
Compared to elsewhere we’re so lucky, I
cannot complain when mild skips a beat,
and for three days we clock a season high.
But we don’t air condition – not replete
is insulation’s presence by our bay,
and, see? I wrote of heat wave anyway.
I recollect two travel dreams last night,
one featuring my mother, late-deceased
and out of character – upbeat and light
and heading to live entertainment (least
of likely happenings, with nothing right-
arranged). The second, local-set and east
of ocean, took me somewhere broke and strange.
I reeled them both as harbingers of change.
On Labor Day the special project set
by self for self without external nudge,
was straightening the rug until it met
the edges of the oaken floor. To budge
its plush expanse required me to get
the loveseat off and trunk aside. I judge
it level, even, after my beau geste.
That labor merited a hefty rest.
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