One dog and one cat pretend 

to sleep in the dark next to the bed.
While coffe pot laughter writes sonic
kitchen haiku. Playful gurgle song
                    disk jockey with a needle
                     dropping hot old tunes.
Beauty was awake late, deep
into the dark night poems.
She sleeps peaceful now.
The sound of a handmade
ceramic cup thunks the cedar
board with a deep and true
quiet punctuation.
A thick roast steam rises up, life
in timed rhythm of sound and smell.
 
Boot lace slither, it’s too much
for the cat to bear. 
He attacks the strings like a kitten. 
After all these years it sill makes me shake 
my head and tie double knots around 
 and through gaps in flashing paws.
It is peaceful here.
 
On the lanai tasting the elixir and smoke
of the days first cigarette I can feel 
the forest breathe. 
The offering of my morning grattittude 
is holy to me, intended to be as uncareful
as it is sincere.
I am thankful.
 
The mist covered lake rests still 
down there somewhere.
Every dripping wet drop thing drips with mist.
Up here the slow growing groans of oak
 and pines accompany owl flutes in the fog
in a strange patterned dripbeat time.
 
There is no mountain.
These rocks become wet bones.
 This now –this place– this is our home.
 
Gloves on and shovel fitted
to my hand. Unceremoniously 
I flick what is left of the coffee
(the bitter creamy dregs )
from the cup into the flowers.
 
Enough, there is work.