On the stone table, a dying wasp. And a small drift of olive leaves, and then some cold peony tea in the painted Italian mug from when I worked at the antiquarian bookshop for a year or two, upstairs in San Francisco, walking sometimes through the tunnel to North Beach for lunch (strong frothy cappucino con vov), buying coffee beans from Mexico just up the street, commuting by train and the 30 Stockton bus; cracks in its very fabric now, its inside lip and base.
The Zen stone with yesterday’s cup of water all but evaporated, that small daily ritual “making things look as if they’re cared for.”
Our funny onion sprouted in the winter bowl now doubled, tall, against the fence.
The blue-glazed water bowl waiting for lily or papyrus (silver minnows would be nice).
A chill still on the air as I, wrapped in the comforts of purple sweatshirt, robe, sit on the almost Southwestern kilim pillows and write down what comes to mind and eye, collecting/ recollecting what is here.
Needing a sturdy broom.
The goats in dappled sunlight grazing grass. In other wildlife notes, a cloud of bushtits passing overhead, not lighting in the olive as they sometimes do.
The long cracks in the cement. I will cover some with rugs, or else just follow with my eye like errant thoughts, dry riverbeds spotted from planes, meandering traces of old journeys, forgotten destinations.
A marked-up page of the story that I’m coming to the end of, and the old novel I want to try again: Santa Fe in summer (where I’ll be soon).
How I love to sit outside, in shade and birdsong, finding my pulse, feeling my way.
image: MieleTè e Dolce Lavanda
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