Days of Rest

A day of complete rest begins

with a blank square on the calendar,

glimpsed the night before.

If my right ear cannot hear the beeping

of the alarm, my left ear can, when I turn

to click it off. I rise to see the early light

out the window, pull on a robe,

go down the stairs to make the coffee.

For cheerfulness, I plug in the mini white lights

around the kitchen window and the patio door,

a constant holiday. I take my morning pill

with nighttime water. The coffee drips

slurpily into its tiny pot. I write my poem.

And now, as the day continues to brighten,

I will read, cuddled by a soft blue fleece.

I will putter about, for movement,

doing small chores as needed, as work

is also restful if not forced, demanded,

scrutinized. It’s just you and me, my dear,

and you are also busy or resting

in your small, daily ways. Nothing calls to us.

We keep meeting on the stairs, laughing.

“What are the odds?” You speak to me

in the middle of the sentence in your mind.

I tell you I saw the big rabbit in the yard.

The mail may come, very late in the day,

with nothing, or something, or a bill.

And the darkness that always falls

will now fall later, as spring is gathering

itself like an army for joy, to meet

the onslaught of summer in the months

to come, when I will take my days of rest

in the back yard, and you in the hammock.

— Babs