daily comforts
watching the small birds come to the feeder
feeling the warmth of the heated beanbag
behind my neck, its soft flannel
finding the spells in words, in images:
tables set in a woodland, purple artichokes
held forward like an offering in both hands
envisioning a generosity of flowers
in the big-bellied Italian pot, a wedding gift
and then the birds again, and nine-grain toast
and all those things that say "morning," and
"mine," and how immeasurably grateful I am
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