Unhurried

evening comes early but my days are long

for I wear this chronic slowness

like the boredom of childhood summers

heavy with the chore of finding our own pastimes

drenched with the exertion of impossibilities

cast into the cool grass to stare into a dense sky

-

back then success was captured

in photographs like ghost towns -

the present buffered with agility and stamina -

now attired in a different body

I retire the facades of past adventure

to gather ornaments of sentiment for my own pleasure

-

here is the sweet weight that warms the hands

and melts away the dreams

Italian roast in a thick mug - I drink it like a child

softening daybreak with milk-fat and sugar

-

later I choose the earthy taste of life

leached from a pinch of dry leaves in a ceramic pot

the tart heat of honey and half-lemon

-

I collect the afternoon butterflies of sunlight

cast by glass raindrops when the sun floats low

skimming the tips of cold trees

rolling the cat about on the kitchen floor

dipping the ends of his fur in patches of bright tint

-

I save, too, the comfort of geometry -

assembled by friendships as old as my very bones -

and spread well-being across my lap

-

in the silence of the early hours

when I sense my careful turning -

take inventory of the small dog snug in his place

and that sun-drenched kitty at my side -

then I let the glow of yesterday slip into the darkness -

anticipate the gift of my awakening