I believe in libraries, in used books,
and the parts of life that we are
blessed to touch with bare hands
the way I feel alive and at peace
cutting herbs from the garden,
or hanging clothes onto the rack
one by one so they appear as an
ordered design, to the extent that
when I open my closet doors they
expose a fabric painting. This way,
each day begins and ends with art.

I believe in the experience of life
being pulled from the ordinary,
deriving joy from activities like
swirling syrup into my oatmeal
each morning as the sun circles
my white Spanish home on the hill
and enters through the window
from which I stand and delight in
newly born leaves on the trees
and birds building nests therein,
calling morning to night, I tell myself
because they are alive (do they or we
need any other reason to celebrate?)
And the squirrels running the lattice
who drive both dogs mad with glee;
I hear them too, knawing on seeds
in the Cyprus outside my bedroom.

That the small movements of the world
are as important as our ability to sense them
and that everything we touch we become
and this can be good: I believe in this, too.

(Written March 30, 2019 as an ode to the joys of a simple life and a lovely apartment.)