Sitting on My Deck
In My Red Deck Chair
I Have The Sheets on The Line
& The World in My Lap
I Can Hear The Surf
& See The Blue Horizon
Hazed Over
Like My Open Globe
I am Mrs Dr W Hunter Blair
I sit on My Deck
& write poetry
I dress for The Weather
& whatever else is going on
I listen to The Sheets & Towels
fluttering on the line
I listen to The Birds
The Waves
& whatever else is going on
I listen
I write
for Joanna Gilman Hyde
I suddenly feel older
by more than the fifteen years
since I dolefully reclined
in a wicker chaise longue
on the screened-in porch
built by My First Husband
— a porch sought for My Sanity —
yet used so briefly
I wonder how I remember it at all
–
This Deck I’m on now
in My Maturity
is an outpost for reverence
of All My Surroundings
occupied daily in good weather
and always in Good Mind:
I am healed now
— I long for nothing —
and have grown up
into The Full Observer
I was as The Child
The Cats have lacerated
The Posts
on The Deck
but We don’t care
–It’s An Old Deck–
–no paint–
& We Love The Cats
& have no trees nearby
except for The Scrub Spruce
& That’s too far
for Half-a-Dozen Cats
