As my dogs bound outside into darkness,
I note the warm air on my skin;
minutes later, scooping the cat box,
applaud the inventor of litter that clumps
into spheres.
I note the warm air on my skin;
minutes later, scooping the cat box,
applaud the inventor of litter that clumps
into spheres.
In the light from the stove I admire the gleam
of one pink-and-blue capsule
and finger with pleasure
the round pills’ sleek curves.
These are my Sunday blessings:
vacant of grievances, nothing that hurts,
no heartache or muddle or mess,
no din of TV, just the gratification
of hot milky coffee, my amusement
at having to clap at the cat on the counter.
A day without umbrage or secrets,
sans breakage, sans spoilage, sans spills.
A day to delight in the mockingbird’s warble,
savor the first juicy bite of a peach,
admire the fit a favorite teal dress,
and sail through green lights on the road.
No deprivation, no dread.
except for a pang now and then for the life
that survives at the whim of a natural disaster
or land-hungry leader, and for children
born in the age of the Anthropocene.
That’s when my heart’s like the frog
with déjà su at the scorpion’s sting,
the lamb singled out by the wolf.
But this morning I tidy my inbox—
a satisfaction akin picking up toddlers’ toys
or cleaning my teenagers’ rooms—
then turn to Poetry Daily and Poem-a-Day
for the mind-gift of words
perfectly mated to meaning.
Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems in various literary magazines, my publications include two academic biographies, two memoirs, a full collection of poems, and three poetry chapbooks. My latest, THIS SAD AND TENDER TIME has just appeared (Kelsay Books, December 2023).
panoply, a literary zine 