In coming home last Sunday on the train,
I surfaced to the street to find the hue
of sun shade sails that stretch above the main
pedestrian paved area is new.
Where vibrant red once overspread my view,
the fabric’s aqua now, as if to bring
impressions toned like Caribbean blue,
perhaps insinuating hints of spring.
The buds are obviously immature,
containing promises of heavy weight.
Their petals tight as onion skin are sure
to grow apart, send perfume toward the gate,
and lose deep pink for solid yellow lure
to bees and butterflies – such is their fate.
Their growth is cellular and existential,
and now they dazzle me with their potential.
Of course no feelings last, but I’ll confess
I feel invincible today, and fortified.
I weathered years of water leakage stress,
and months’ intrusion that I asked inside.
It’s all behind me now. There’s a recess
from nagging worries and the bills that pried
more funds away than were my first intent.
Today I think the time and cash well-spent.
At 4 p.m. on Thursday afternoon,
I watched the man dismantling the shop
he’d set up on my deck, and knew that soon
the work would be complete and he would stop
all noise and interruption. I could drop
the need to dress, the obstacles to rest.
The job went well – I rate him at the top,
but 4-plus months it took to look its best.
The future will of course proceed to shrink,
by natural operation and my aim.
Of late I look to next year, and I think
I’ll still be occupied. I’ll change my game;
I’ll turn away from office work, unlink
my Wednesday visits. Not the same
will be my weeks, but stimuli enough
will rise from winnowing through my old stuff.
I know we should have cut the roses back,
but somehow fall and winter got away
from us, with travel, task, and other lack
of time – in fact, the garden looked okay.
The door and window projects had their sway,
so now the plant has budded ends on all
its limbs – we cannot trim that birth display!
Instead I’ll bide behind a thorny wall.
I’ve lived here nearly 18 years, and kept
most papers I have filed or received.
I tolerate no clutter and I’ve swept,
but folders should have long ago been heaved.
I’ll spend an hour weekly. I’m adept
enough to fill one banker’s box, relieved
to move a mountain even though I dread it,
to where old office mates will duly shred it.
I have a little office here – the shed
across the deck – for bike and my PC,
to keep my files distant from my bed
and loveseat, where I rest and watch TV.
A while back, consenting it could be
repository for the tools he’d use
refurbishing four weathered doors for me,
I note removal now, and I enthuse.
A week ago this blossom greeted me,
when I glanced west and set the coffee pot
to brew my morning drink electrically.
Thus urged, I turned to see what I could spot
on trellis and beneath the leafing tree
that soon will fruit. As usual, my lot
is lush this time of year, and shot with bloom
embroidering the green outside my room.
They’re clearly not the phases of the moon –
these seven circles filled with black and white
in patterns. Walking Friday afternoon
I passed them from the sidewalk, on my right.
I double-taked and then I shot the sight,
backtracking out of shadow cast by me.
Proceeding on until the traffic light,
I didn’t parse the parkway strategy.
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