If I have ever written verse outside,
I don’t remember when. But here I sit
in sunshine, at a table, modified
by garden foods and exercise to fit,
protected from all vehicles and phones.
I haven’t a complaint or grief to list;
I’m active every morning – heart and bones –
and afternoons I nap or bend my wrist
to let my right hand hold this pen and move,
to try to write a sonnet in the sun
that I imagine no one will approve,
for it’s of no account, about no one.
Composing it felt nothing like a chore
and sweet, because I’d never tried before.