Raindrops chime against
a metal watering can left outdoors
among seedlings, yet to be planted;
unopened bags of loam
lie neglected,
stacked obelisks awaiting sun.
As rain ripples, begins to pool,
it gathers in gutters
along the potting shed
before cascading
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
before contending
with a less-than-perfect world.
New England Memories 