I grow lazy about writing poems.
My companion today is the detachment of age
(These lines take great effort;
I hope you appreciate this.)
Pleasure is something as simple as
massaging a fleeting care from my brow,
letting go… always letting go
Oh, I see scenes of my past
A boy on a farm, a dog,
a traveler for a time,
a student, a young husband, father,
a striver full of self-doubt
a maker of many mistakes
but they are not me any longer
different bodies, different chapters
in a book I’ve closed and
put on a distant shelf for good.
Even my name, my byline, were
someone to call it out,
I cannot say if I would respond.
It would not feel like me any more
I am moving, moving.
The clock strikes eleven
the day is sunny and calm
a breeze moves the colorful flags outside
stirs the clematis vines
and strolls through my house
bringing a scent of the mountains, and fir
Dragonflies gather at my door
The roses modestly drape the yard
with elegance and unearned grace
And my heart is ignorant of all else.