In the raw chill of these early hours
while the last hint of summer flowers
lie wilted and blackened in the berms
and the terms of winter
have matted the tomato vines in the grass,
I pause in the passing of last night’s rest,
an unscheduled guest of pre-dawn contemplation,
roused from the warmth of soft covers
and tossed by thoughts of jobs and projects
and the pursuit of objective consideration.
The streets are quiet and the gutting gusts
of Sunday’s wind and the blizzard to the north
have settled into the aftermath of their sending.
I am trying to decide whether the beginning
of this day’s doings should be in the attic or the crawl space.
Both are necessary and neither will be comfortable.
And even though it has been quite some time
since I could find my way to where I wanted to be
without some level of inconvenience,
some measure of discomfort
and even an occasional bit of pain,
it has not kept me from the occasional seeking of gain
with a minimum of the other.
And though it is sometimes said that the best things of life are free
I have often found that most of the pretty good things
are bound up in several layers of hard work
and more than a modicum of prayer, patience and persistence.