Raindrops chime against
a metal watering can left outdoors
among seedlings, yet to be planted;
unopened bags of loam
stacked obelisks awaiting sun.
As rain ripples, begins to pool,
it gathers in gutters
along the potting shed
in sheets along matted ground.
I sip morning coffee, lukewarm,
cool feet against smooth surfaces of tile,
eyes, not quite alert from rivers of sleep,
ideas, slow-rising from dormancy.
What lies ahead from this infant-of-a-day?
A clock ticks, insists on flicking
immediacy upon the present.
Should I go off to perform rituals,
begin gardening when the sky
clears, check items from a list?
I want only to remain here,
to look out my window—
embrace this small contentment
dwelling in the quiet
with a less-than-perfect world.