Grass needs cutting,
and the grease spot on the porch
needs cleaning.
I am losing the war of the fruit flies.
Waking from deep dreams not worth remembering
I shower, make coffee, ponder the raised garden beds:
comforting myself with the knowledge
that this is a learning year.
Wine fermenting in the basement –
months away from wanting lips.
Mead on the shelf,
aging into proper fullness.
The old cat is sunning on the back porch,
being taunted by birds he is too tired to catch.
Out of habit, I listen for the sound of the dog.
This poem needs writing.
There is cleaning to be done,
preparations for the coming celebration.
All my meditations are timed in head nods
and circuitous blinking of my left eye.
Western horizons expand in front of me.
In preparing to leave, I stuff dirt in my pockets
so I will have a piece of this place
so I will remember the way back
by the feeling of the dirt between my fingers
and its difference to sod beneath my boot heels.