It isn’t that I’m foggy when I rise,
but something shifts as I get vertical.
In 40 minutes I will organize
intention; then small aims exert their pull.
From out of lax I start to realize
a walk to lunch will suit me to the full,
and so reserve tomorrow to maintain
at home sweet silence for a day of rain.
I haven’t taken many supplements.
I honored definition of the word,
and tried to view with some intelligence
the real, instead of what I broadly heard.
But lately when I check with diligence
my symptoms, I conclude it is absurd
to not attempt increase of energy.
I just subscribed to vitamins for me.
I learned with sadness she’s again unwell.
We wouldn’t meet for lunch or see the play.
I texted three with offers, but could tell
it wasn’t how I wished to spend the day.
I needed quiet, and could not compel
myself to sit all afternoon away
from home, in crowds, with mask and nodding head.
We finally postponed the plan instead.
Like obligated calling that completes
by leaving word, full happy no one speaks,
my offers scored some credit socially.
But we still have the tickets. Fortune treats
us well if she’s recovered in two weeks,
when we can dine and watch the play mask-free.
Whatever the weather I’ll have to adjust.
I’m too lucky here for complaining.
And powerless also; to Nature I’ll trust.
But oh, how I wish it were raining.
Three people whom I love but criticize,
have lately seemed improved. I’ve been impressed
with elder patience, peerage in my eyes
less testy, and the younger one unstressed
by daily perturbation. Is it true?
Have three of three self-modified somehow?
Or is this a mirage in point of view?
(and I’m the candidate of change right now).
Perhaps relief a milestone’s been passed
accounts for one. A new prescription might
be working, and my friend has maybe cast
her scope on self, with dim but wiser sight.
For really, it’s unlikely to be three
endeavoring. A better theory’s: me.
Self-inventory yesterday revealed
a shoulder tweak, a twinge in my left knee,
a tender hip that couldn’t be concealed
as I began to walk. So cautiously
I sat as solitaire and coffee healed
of my complaining joints two out of three.
I searched for gentle yoga then, and moved
with senior slowness till the rest improved.
My phone identifies the volunteer
that colonized the space beside the gate
as Phytolacca Icosandra: queer,
gigantic, berried, bending from the weight
of rainfall. I see birds appreciate
the fruit, but it’s no food our species loves.
The common name is Pokeweed, and its fate
will be some major pruning, wearing gloves.
The sun is going down at 5 o’clock.
The evening rolls in, darkening the view.
And though aware I host some writer’s block
at dusk, I can revise a line or two,
considering that while it’s nothing new
I write, creative is the energy
I loose to focus carefully and true.
I lease at least what’s typical of me.
I think to write at night, but lately find
my hands would rather rest than hold a pen.
Although ideas may germinate in mind,
they need some percolation time. So when
a theme occurs – a question or a kind
of theory buds – I push it in again,
where it will like a beanstalk sprout all night.
Arising with the sun, I’m moved to write.
Aware tomorrow’s full from dawn to night,
and glad I walked my errands yesterday,
I’ll fill with words and food and bath the light:
prepare some posts and meals, and scrape away
old skin from face and dander from my gray.
I’ll dress in sweats, and rest for spans at home.
I’ll move but log few steps, and I’ll delay
all acts except those listed in this poem.
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