What have I done with the many days -
the perfect spring ones when you see the daffodil shoots
erupting from the mulch like a promise -
the perfect summer ones when you can paddle on the river
and watch the red-fingered sunset
play across the flowing surface -
erupting from the mulch like a promise -
the perfect summer ones when you can paddle on the river
and watch the red-fingered sunset
play across the flowing surface -
the perfect fall ones when the sun is low
and there is morning frost on the grass
and the wet leaves smell like the turning of the world?
and there is morning frost on the grass
and the wet leaves smell like the turning of the world?
finally, what have I done with the perfect winter ones -
the ones when you wake to brilliant white light
reflected off the fresh snow covering
the lawn you mowed in the summer
the leaves you raked in the fall
your kayak out on its rack
and the mulch beds where the daffodils lay sleeping?
the ones when you wake to brilliant white light
reflected off the fresh snow covering
the lawn you mowed in the summer
the leaves you raked in the fall
your kayak out on its rack
and the mulch beds where the daffodils lay sleeping?
It is on the winter ones that I sit at my kitchen table by the window
my coffee's steam billowing up through the brightness
from above and below
that I hope with sincerity
that I have not wasted the many days,
even the imperfect ones, which, upon reflection
are not so different, after all.
my coffee's steam billowing up through the brightness
from above and below
that I hope with sincerity
that I have not wasted the many days,
even the imperfect ones, which, upon reflection
are not so different, after all.
YouTube: https://youtu.be/TpIW7pSF8-g
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