On the sofa
with the dining room
French doors open.
A view that
enraptures me.
The broad oak,
if not ancient
magical nonetheless,
it branches
dip and swoop,
dissecting the
door-framed view.

Making life seem
beautiful –
reminding me
that it is.
Sometimes you
brush against
the magic that
enshrouds us
like a web-spun
against all odds
breaking free.

But that is
not the real
story here.
The real story
is the dusty
white table,
its chairs tilted
against the rim,
the way I do,
hoping to keep
the seats clean,
so I can sit
without wiping.

An effort as vain
as such efforts
tend to be.
But it helps –
really – it does.
The table is
the real story.
Radiating energy
in the dappled

Neglected all summer
I think, not much
use for two years
while the house suffered
its disruptions,
and upheavals.
Some from unsought
damage and some
in the struggle
for progress and
My persistent dream
of transformation.
What a hell
that has been,
the old sofa
blocking the dining
room door,
where I sat
sipping tea,
trying to
wake up,
trying to hold on,
crying from exhaustion
at night.
Two new sofas
came and went.
Now the same
old sofa is back
in its same old

And the outdoor
table, glistening
in spite of, or
because of its
dust, is calling
me back.