The sun came up
silver and cold
like a dime
in the palm
of the ominous
November sky.
Low strata of gray
clouds are banked
creating a false horizon
that appears to be
a range of mountains
where there are none.
There are no birds
although I scattered
seed for them as always.
Inside, in the warmth,
my wife is bathing
for work at the library
where she will pander
books to the unwashed public.
I sit on the porch
smoking my usual cigar,
drinking my usual coffee,
and preparing for my usual day.
And that—that is my daily problem—
how to spend my time until
my wife comes home
to the dinner I will prepare for her.
Now that I am retired
my days are predictable—
I take my meds
religiously and try
to ignore the pain
and all the many
signs of my physical
decay and corruption.,
I do a little reading,
a little writing, television
and naps with the dog and cat—
the house clean and so silent
that I’ve begun to talk to myself,
and to a God I’m trying
to rediscover. My beautiful son
is at a suburban mall selling
exotic teas to recreational shoppers.
His girlfriend is trying to teach art
to inner city children who have no
use for it or her.
Sometimes to pass the time,
I page through old
photo albums, a record of my
seventy plus years—
my sad adopted sister, my ancient crazy mother,
my sweet soft-spoken father
now two years younger than I,
and I wonder at how young we were,
how expectant we were of life,
not knowing yet our failures,
our disappointments, and follies—
how we were to be undone.
I look up from writing this
to discover that the birds have arrived—
the bright cardinals, the fat doves,
the blue jays, and the many sparrows—
and I—I am feeding my flock,
learning God’s presence in them,
in their color, grace, and song.
Sometimes it seems I am writing
the same poem over and over
again, like a memorized
prayer, asking to know the joy of God
in all things—even in the creature
He set forth in The Garden—
the creature He made in His own
image and called Man.