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.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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