Sun slopes low through
Boston ivy leaves festooning
the window where I wait.
Traffic drones, chatty radio
sputters in the kitchen:
North Korea’s a-bomb is the
indignation of the nation.
The blue berries on the ivy,
relative of some grape
ready themselves to be winter
larder for shivering birds.
I bring new stories to the
paintings here, every day,
discovering who I am each time.
Table lamps deliver globes of
warmth and literacy
to their respective corners.
In summer I look out at
the river and far horizons;
the rest of the year,
horizons are pretty close by.
Winter’s weather wisdoms
are more reliant on
the gods of electricity.
The sun sinks lower every day:
respite is at hand.
