Simple Pleasures

The sun lifts an edge and peeks a feeble light beneath a blanket of morning fog, its dull glow hugging the horizon, silhouetting a stand of trees and the cross-hatched pattern of a factory fence. Another day has begun with its shuffle of trite miscellanea. I muster an interest, sending out my first emissary of thought to greet the return of this ancient god, follow the rituals set to guide my way, bring favor and bless the little plot of earth that surrounds my life. I pray a poem to reap a continued harvest. Not much happens now except down in the cellars of my mind where I keep the past bottled like vintage wine. Now and then I give each a turn to dislodge the sediment and taste a sample or two, clean the labels and try and remember the details from those that have fallen off. Occasionally I bring a bottle up to share with a friend, set it upon a table, open and drink. An insipid autumn sun is enough to dance reflections around the rim of my glass, ease out a tear or a smile, helping me up to go and get another. My days now have matured into simple pleasures and writing a few lines to label the bottles cellared in the quiet reaches of my mind.