Early August

August sky

The sunshine doesn’t strike the roof till 8,
but white infills the skylight glass at 6.
Through lids my eyes see day, and then the state
of sleep departs; I stretch to spinal cricks
and move to coffee, email, online news.
I putter and proceed to exercise
my arms and heart and think of what I’ll use
today, intending little compromise.

I plan to be like Beauty in the tale –
my wants as simple as a single rose,
disdaining finery and riches, pale
in lust but focused on my floral goal –
a creature in dilemma black and white,
against the spectral context of our light.

This entry was posted in Aging, Personality, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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