I sit where I always sit
looking east over the golf course.
A soft fog settles over tufted grass,
grey-lavender clouds reflected
in the canal, a slight waver
on the surface of the water.
It rained last night I learn
when I go out for the Times,
water standing in the drive,
plastic wrapped paper dripping
as I pick it up.
I tell myself, look at the world,
learn from it. The 10,000 joys,
the 10,000 sorrows. Half the sky clear
with a slice of moon, the other
half cloud-ridden, a water-color wash.
Water shimmers, a limpkin strides by.