I thought I’d write good books when I grow up.
I practiced but could not create a plot.
And when the stories started to show up
in mind, I was impatient and forgot
to let the climax build. I rushed and shot
the arc of story, wad-like, in the knee.
It took me years to realize I was not
cut out for prose. I write short poetry.
The meal was fabulous: the room a treat;
the service timing perfect; and the food?
Each course was palate-present and a meet
companion to the wine and talk. My mood
was light and loving, interaction sweet
but never cloying, sharp but nothing rude.
Of dinners I’ve enjoyed it may be best,
but it may take all weekend to digest.
Outside the skylights each day of the week
I had a view like this, and often noise.
The former roofers lacked the right technique,
and bankrupted. My neighbor now employs
a local crew to make the roof not leak.
They’re nearly finished. Soon what now destroys
my customary peaceful atmosphere
will leaving reestablish silence here.
Asserting that a story humbly told
about oneself is surer to succeed,
she narrated her anecdote but rolled
the end to pride about her fitness. We’d
a walk ahead to which each had agreed,
and after she rejected extra weight,
we set forth and, in minutes, slowed our speed,
in need to deficit-accommodate.
Like coming home when I’ve been tasked away,
embracing peace and savoring the quaint
array of charms these cubic feet convey,
I’m reveling in absence of constraint.
I had to bind myself, until today,
in disciplines not worthy of complaint,
but just enough obnoxious that I’m spun
to deep appreciation now they’re done.
The chorus of raptors is raucous today.
I noticed the noises at 8.
Accustomed to few and infrequent, the play
of timbre in timber was great.
I didn’t hear crows and I witnessed no flight,
but whistle-like calling was strong.
It set my attention and hearing alight,
diverted by hawk morning song.
I’m glad to note, the lumbar twinge perceived
when I arose today, diminished soon.
And inconvenience lab and doctor peeved
me with, will probably inspire thought.
No doubt some novelty will be achieved,
experienced through slightly altered state.
And data will be gathered that’s believed
of use, for which I’ll spend an afternoon
and overnight sincerely not aggrieved.
I must have been preferred when I was born:
desired by my parents, and the first.
But Mom was scared and hasty; she was torn
between the love and errands. I was nursed
by a professional, to scheduled sleep,
and bottle-fed, with days and nights rehearsed.
I don’t remember primacy that deep
until I grew to a priority.
I married him, but learned to loathe the sweep
of adulation suffocating me.
To be my husband’s favorite felt a chore –
the weight of bliss the opposite of free.
My babies each were angels to adore,
and soon esteemed me most in their small world,
but also taught ambivalence, for sure,
as in unending labor I was hurled.
So while I’ve several times been Number One,
by love surrounded and in passion whirled,
it never was unmitigated fun.
In truth, I feel alone a lack of stress,
existing now as other than a Sun
or Moon. First-favored brought no happiness –
perhaps by Mom’s unease I was forlorn,
but of triumphal love I’m best with less.
Returning home from lunching with a friend,
I saw the varmint sunning in the yard.
I waited for this photograph, to send
an early summer stanza, nothing hard
and nothing brilliant – like a greeting card
I’m jotting to convey a note to each,
that tough as now is I can soft-regard
a neighbor, as I bite a perfect peach.
Increasing weekly walking quite a bit
of late, but always with an end in mind,
like getting to a place appropriate
for family or labor or the kind
of groceries I savor and think fit
for purposes to which I’m strong-inclined,
my path is often varied purposely.
And sundry sights are entertaining me.
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