This is the best day to be alive.
Sun suffuses my navy-blue shirt
awakening my skin, my breath.
Air rain-cleansed, the ground now dry.
Nearby: a young woman with infant
sleeping in the hammock of her arms.
A brown bird under the table
grazing on crumbs.
Mere feet away, star jasmine bursting
among glistening green leaves.
Some shadows remain: the work
that pulls you miles away, hours
between us.
And yet the jasmine.
The metal chair beside me, empty, warm
in the blossom of morning.
“Some days, hope is exhausting.”
—Miriam O’Neal
though not today:
after years of drought,
prodigal rainclouds
have swept through
again and again—but
today sunlight
coaxes steam
from wet soil
a kinglet at the
kitchen window
flashes its ruby crown
and light catches
the blushing throat
of a hummingbird
at backyard fuchsia
suddenly in bloom
today one warm
sweater is enough,
your sigh and mine
in unison, old
muscles gracious
though wind-whipped
nimbus darken
skies to the north,
driving toward us,
and by nightfall
we’ll pull curtains
against the thrashing
of another storm
today I welcome
mud oozing into
weathered soles
“Matins” previously published in Field of Everlasting (Main Street Rag, 2022)