In old and overstuffed, worn
but oh-so-comfy
cushy armchair
I sit, in the still of first light
orchid sky intricately latticed
by rustling coconut palms
smelling yesterday's fresh-mown grass
after last night’s
drenching rain
admiring my spiked bromeliads
absurd dry-loving exotica
thriving in nature’s paradoxical jungle
only the birds stir
wings whir, dipping in and out
of quiet violet ocean horizon
they swoop in stomach-clenching
full throttled loop-the-loops
as cold winter drafts
sweep over the back of my neck –
having rolled all the way down the mountain
like frigid tumbleweeds
to fly, invisibly, through my open door
I sigh
pour my carefully allotted
second cup of coffee -
with real cream, not the powdery pretend stuff,
watch my grass grow greener
till next week’s mow
and the early morning rooster
shepherding his harem into the future
I leave my door open
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