list

Some friends of ours
call the breakfast table
recitation of ills
an organ recital.

As we age
there are other lists
with generic names:
who’s dead
who’s dying
who’s sick
who’s taking these medications
who’s taking those
who’s going down hill
who’s lost his marbles.

The worst list
has to be
all the reasons to despair.

I have a list of my own;
it has no name—
but excuse me while I take in
that falcon gliding high overhead;
notice how the sunlight
limns its wingtips;
it reminds me of
the sky in Tuscany:
warm and lazy
over the soft feathers of cyprus
pluming the hillside—
where was I?

[print_link]