a poetry

Easy days, like this
I’ve become used to them

Easy days, restful days
nothing to prepare
nothing left to finish up

Easy days, quiet days
no urgent phone calls
no snail mail, no emails
wanting this or questioning that

Easy days, lazy days
getting up late, eating late
reading novels, watching TV
every item, every move
an end in itself

Easy days, like this
restful, quiet, lazy
reasons to go on are gone
phone calls, mail from no one
going nowhere – gone

Easy days, like this
I’ve become used to them
I’ve mastered them
nothing left to do
but this.

Knowing what a vow
means. What change
means. Writing a manual
of how to grow.

Promises are easy to
mutter in heaven’s ear,
discussions of reality
as corporeal as dissecting
imagined clouds.

But I have begun
to cast promises in stone
or clay. Making vows
set in a rigid cast. Wanting
my word to carry weight.

What sound does
a year make? It may
be the sound of changing,
dragonflies coasting
on the breeze before unkind
winter snap. I remember
the song of road travel,
uncertain outcomes.
Traveling back, even a month,
what advice would I offer?