I grow lazy about writing poems. 

My companion today is the detachment of age

(These lines take great effort;

I hope you appreciate this.) 

Pleasure is something as simple as

massaging a fleeting care from my brow,

letting go… always letting go

Oh, I see scenes of my past

A boy on a farm, a dog, 

a traveler for a time, 

a student, a young husband, father,

a striver full of self-doubt

a maker of many mistakes

but they are not me any longer

different bodies, different chapters

in a book I’ve closed and 

put on a distant shelf for good. 

Even my name, my byline, were 

someone to call it out, 

I cannot say if I would respond.

It would not feel like me any more

I am moving, moving. 

The clock strikes eleven

the day is sunny and calm

a breeze moves the colorful flags outside

stirs the clematis vines

and strolls through my house

bringing a scent of the mountains, and fir

and ocean

Dragonflies gather at my door

The roses modestly drape the yard

with elegance and unearned grace

And my heart is ignorant of all else.