I freely admit I am no poet, but this came to me in fragments this morning as I sat on my front steps. It’s corny, of course, but it suited my mood:
I lean back, the aroma of coffee swirling about me,
the contents of my mug warming my hands.
My eyes grow heavy, slowly close,
as the glinting sun casts a soft orange glow,
sending points of light that contract and expand
to dance behind my shuttered lids.
Attempts to read aborted, papers cast aside,
time to relish, time to savor, time to be alone,
to wander, to roam, to drift lazily inside my head.
Random thoughts, vague ideas float by, borne on a swirling sea,
unnoticed by my brain, too disengaged to harness them
or capture what they might be.
I dream of one who holds my love,
who lives inside my heart, my soul,
whose memory burrows deep within my christened bed.
A half-smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
With pleasure comes a subtle shift in mood.
For a moment, I have found that which I seek:
Quiet. Stillness. A sense of peace.
I bask in solitude.