A bit like a nun up from
clean starched sheets worshiping
royal yellow emperor sun unfolding
its robes into the new day to the
plunking strum of Eralio Gill’s harp
somewhere out there a rose garden
in here blessed routine looking out our
green window I write poems, I visit my own home
live my canon law, the right to gently
carpe diem calmly ignore the coaxing
traffic whooshing outside which
wants me bureaucratic
quickly washed and frantic
I’ll sit in a breakfast lifestyle while
husband clinks ceramic plates on the table
and shuffles his slippers on the slate floor
My eyes are fresh in the homeland
perpetual novelty of butter
jam honey on toasted bread
~ Lady