Leaving my winter hat and gloves on a shelf,
the sun in my eyes after months of grey,
windows open, arms reaching for the breeze.
Walking dogs with no salt, no slippery ice.
Children skipping down the sidewalk, coat-free
after school, waving wands and
blowing bubbles down the block.
My honey detaching an orange bucket
from the sheet of ice in front of our house
where, early this winter, we placed it
carefully under a gutter drip
and it stayed stuck for weeks.
Settling into my mobile office again
during my daughter’s Wednesday
afternoon class, during this one
dependably quiet, deliciously solo
hour each week, pushing the driver’s seat back
as far as it goes, opening my notebook,
pulling out my pen and writing – just writing –
staring out the windshield every so often
at the cracked cement wall, the foundation
of an elevated train track, listening
every so often to the steady stream of traffic
behind me. And writing. Just that.
Dependably. Once a week.
30 poems in 30 days