In transit to the compost bin to toss
the morning coffee grounds, it caught my eye:
a harbinger of coming spring, a gloss
of blooming foliage 12 inches high.
I planted neither seed nor shoot across
that space between 2 bushes. I could try
identifying this emergent gift,
or simply ride its January lift.
A doctor once advised me not to poke
an item less than elbow-size in ears.
Detecting solid wisdom in his joke,
I took his point to heart. That was 10 years
ago at least, while he removed the wax
I’d grown (that syringe brought wince and even tears).
Benign neglect since then has been too lax,
for seven days ago my hearing paled.
I thought it bathing water, but the cracks
and pops persisted till I almost failed
to hear the toilet flush, or tones around
the neighborhood where traffic noise prevailed.
I tried a recommended kit, but found
inadequate relief the first three days.
Resorting to a nurse’s care, some sound
returned but all that wax went in a ways.
She said “continue drops, next week come back,
and we’ll lavage again.” But liquid stays
inside my ears whenever I attack
with dropper or with syringe. I seldom spoke
alone, but now I’m sensing aural lack.
I planned and penned this poem a week ago,
intending it would post on my return.
I packed to travel, but I couldn’t know
what oddities would quirk or when I’d learn.
I’d hug familiar bodies, voice concern
and love as well, but other moods this week
would rise – for 7 days I’d rest or churn –
a lunar phase displaced to keep this streak.
Intending to reduce my speed in most
endeavors, I assume that age will serve
to aid me toward that goal. I used to boast
(at least within) at work and walk, aswerve
and weaving through obstructions, like a host
of foes would block me but I plied my nerve
and bested. I’m at peace now with a pace
to benefit my limbs,
my brain,
my face.
Immersing in my bath last week, a weird
sensation was occasioned for my head.
It felt like water in my ear, appeared
to be a drainage failure, but instead
of dripping out, no posture I tried cleared
the painless situation. When I read
and someone peered, I learned of time’s attacks –
I’m working to now to flush an age of wax.
The meditation centered on the end –
of marriage, friendship, work, a point of view.
I sat the mat and tried to spine-extend,
directing thoughts while breathing deep, on you.
Accepting that our minds have changed, it’s true
for most the set I couldn’t recollect
whatever made it good, for now it’s too
infrequent. We’re too fractious to connect.
The mail collection box was modified.
What’s been a pull-down door is now a slot
that won’t accept a package or a wide
transmittal of much paper. I did not
attend to changes recently applied,
but terrorists and vandals lost their shot
to push a bomb or nastiness inside:
Another feature doomed to be forgot.
It’s seldom coffee loses its appeal
for me, as tonic mugs of morning fuel.
The only days without are if I feel
an illness coming on, when germs are cruel-
victorious. Today’s was like a jewel
of taste, near chocolate-y, and rich in smell.
Enjoying sip by sip each molecule,
this may portend I’ll keep on feeling well.
Remembering A Christmas Carol, read
when I was 12, one summer long ago,
and screened each winter, this year someone led
discussion with the questions: do we know,
was Marley visited? Did he ignore
some spirit lessons which were given breath?
I think so, but what bothers me much more,
is goodness only loosed by fear of death.
Proponents of religion often claim
we won’t behave without the threat of hell –
morality in poor parental frame,
like self-esteem won’t spur us to do well?
In fact, I watch us strive to recreate
the past, devolving into sin and hate.
They love each other well enough to live
together, name each other closest friend,
seldom quarrel, readily forgive,
and try to find activities that blend.
We go back long. Joint memories extend
five decades. But as far as I can tell,
each wonders at the other’s stated end
and neither even knows themselves that well.
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