I lean against the chilly glass and peer
through to a mirage of greenery, leaf-filled
wings, into another world outside the sliding
door, the patio filled with hummingbirds
dipping and diving, enjoying the sugar
water, I’ve just refreshed the mosaic feeders.
It’s hard to say what I like most about
this part of the day. Maybe the fact
I know I have a good man waiting
for me in the other room, who soon
will sit beside me and spoon the tomato
bisque I’ll be making for dinner.
Behind me, my new puppy chases
sliced carrots I’ve scattered across
a marble floor, they spin and slide,
her paws pushing and pawing at thin
orange carved veggies. Tomorrow
will be another day, something yet
to happen could change the course
of my life, but at this moment, all things
seem right. The ivy-overgrown rises
towards the roof tiles nearly reaching
the top, as they curl over the old brick
and become dormant for winter’s days.
They stagnate in slow motion as I gaze
at the gable, a sign of summer has ended.
My youngest daughter sings a Joni Mitchel
song playing her soft blue guitar. It fades
in and out of the room, her door open;
I can see her sitting on the edge of her bed.
An aria fills the air with hope. Years ago,
my parents would have been here, too.
My mother, sipping her glass of chardonnay,
noting on the chrysanthemum’s shade of lavender,
my dad watching the news, asking when
dinner will be ready, my grown children
once creating bustling sounds of joy,
family chaos since quieted. Oh, to the glory
of little feet trampling past in a flurry of wonder,
days vanished yet echo as I stand here,
paralyzed for all that’s been and all that’s yet
to be, my heart a binary organ forever
divided by gratitude and grief.