I know it won’t be long before the relentless humidity stretches from July to eternity
Smothering me in my outdoor oasis,
But, today, in late April at the end of another day of work, the weather’s fine,
the humidity’s at a humble thirty-six percent,
The wind is whispering through the oaks, rain trees and freshly trimmed camphor meditatively,
while i read Billy Collins, and allow my soul to rest a bit from its wrestling with work.
The sun is glistening off the top of the fresh-swept pool,
The pump is faithfully humming along
doing its part collaboratively
With the cross peninsular breezes,
moving the water on the surface of the modest kidney shaped concrete pond,
As just a few leaves sit by themselves on the pool’s bottom,
Me, taken in by little swirls of reflected sunlight, tiny bouncing circles of zen,
A priest of light facing West on a snow white Adirondack,
Reading and writing and breathing out,
Pausing again, and
then breathing in,
The scents of the patterns of a biodome
On a simple April afternoon.
Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, April, 2017.