“It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
Woke up Sunday morning to the ancient
sound of the birds chirping outside
my window. Laid there half-naked
in a mess of sheets listening to
her breathe. Her hair pours off
the pillow. The taste of her love
still lingers on my tongue.
Maybe I’ll attempt a poem today.
Or perhaps she and I will tote a bottle
of wine down by the pond
and read a little Steinbeck in the shade
of a sycamore and forget about
it all.
The archaic eyes of a bearded Whitman
gaze down at me from a painting
on the wall.
I get out of bed quietly and shuffle
into the backyard. Barefoot and alive.
The black coffee in a cracked porcelain
mug stirs the blood. The golden liquid
rays of the renewed sun pierce through
the thirty-foot bamboo stalks that I
planted a few years ago.
It’s springtime in the south and the breeze
feels good on my face. The crape myrtles
and magnolias are blooming. The cardinals
and blue jays flutter around the birdfeeder
as I watch the mischievous squirrels
creep ever so closer. The fresh jasmine
fills the morning with a sweet fragrance.
Daydreams and budding flowers.
Fresh dew glistens on the ferns and
philodendrons as my pooch
chases lizards in the
damp grass.
The flawless symphony of creation, the
eternal throb of life, my spirit
drenched with an undisturbed joy,
a rare contentment. My ornery impulses
at ease, along with my ego. My countless
vices have succumbed to a natural
innocence. Yesterday’s qualms are
forgotten. The future is of no concern.
The bloodstain of history is far from
my mind. Not a drab or dreary
thought arises. Ambition is
absurd. Death is a lie.
I hear the words of Rumi
wafting in the soft
morning light,
The breeze at dawn
has secrets
to tell you. Don’t
go back to
sleep.
Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at the following:
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Thanks for continuing to share your own writing here from time to time, great poem.
truly wonderful poem. thank you.