Distinct from the warm steam
in the shower: I can feel my breath.
Almost miraculous: how I never have to water
the orchid that hangs from the window-frame.
On our quiet street, dozens of leaf bags rest by the curb.
Rain of dry pine needles every time the wind gusts.
A Christmas tree on its side on the corner. Four
houses down, a string of lights kept on the porch all year.
My neighbor gets up at 4 to go to work at 5.
In the dark, orange glow of the check engine light.
I unwrap a small square of brittle: salty nut meat; then,
surprise of rosemary leaf entombed in the clear molasses.
After several bad connections and failed tries, finally
I talk with my 81 year old mother on the phone.
She is losing her hearing, but she says one thing over and over:
Don’t give up on anyone. Love your family. I want to kiss your face.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.