A Perfect Day

(Written for KAXE FM commentary)

My Perfect Day

First there is the tug, the pull of morning light

That lifts me from the dark, dark night

The buzz of French roast beans, the musky

Scent of coffee brewing.

Slippers on chilly feet, a sip, a dip into day.


He sits across from me, my mate,

my husband these past 22 years

who always leaves me thankful for the good grace of love.

We talk.  Laugh.  Plan.  Explore the day.  Explore the way.

What new thing to create­-how many ways to play.


Outside, the sun, wind, trees, earth water

Each one  feeds my soul in a different way.

I love walking across our land, taking in the gardens,

The shed, the pump house, the small straw bale house

That we built bale by bale.

earth plaster, clay, sand, straw, water, cattails

applied handful by handful, day after day

to create a lovely clay jar that

cooks our lives into a delicious day.


And this pen.  This plain paper.  These morning pages.

Go.  Sit.  Don’t think, just write

and from a line of ink spins stories, ideas, universes.

Humble beginnings in a cheap wire-bound notebook

four for a dollar during back to school sales.


For me, scribbling nurtures the creative,

breathing new worlds into being, or thawing a frozen heart,

or giving voice to grief so deep it may just kill me.

Or steering toward gifts, and gladness, and grace.

It does all without judgment, without asking anything back.  Food for the soul.


And then breakfast—or lunch.  On my window sill

a large flowered enamel bowl bought on a trip to New Mexico

sits overflowing with beautiful, plump, ripe tomatoes

that will cook down into curries and sauces and stews.

Home cooked.  Home grown.  Food for the body.


And chores are not chores at all when you putter ( my favorite word)

through each one like a Zen Buddhist Monk—or a basset hound following his nose across a field.  Dishes, digging, mudding, clearing, stashing, tossing, sorting, so much to do.

At days end.  A slow-cooked hot meal.  An ice cold beer.  My guy across from me once again to deconstruct the construction of this, my perfect day.

Outside, a world glows in evening light cleaning its lens for the next day.

Trees sketch the skyline cutting from dark to light, dark to light.


And finally, those sheets, pale blue, cool, feather pillow,

cotton blanket, socks (when needed—or his warm legs)

and that lovely horizontal, stretched out weary body feeling

that restores, heals, and leads me gently into this perfect night.




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