This is not an ordinary life.
This is the greatest gift of all.
I will value it before I lose it,
before my limbs or my mind seize.

Winter has crept in,
quietly stripping the last leaves
so that now it is established,
filling the horizon,
come to stay.

My garden was so lovely
this morning
but I couldn’t linger.

The important thing
is to be here.

The important thing
isn’t to write,
or to think profound thoughts,
or compose words of prayer

Before dawn
in my winter’s garden. 
It is quiet,

the shelter of dark,
the glow of a light,
birdsong,
Jenny’s presence,
me.

What a cluster of bothers
I gather,
letting the negative
stick to me
like hooked seeds
and the wonder and joy
slip past like melted butter.

Spring sings its loveliness,
warming the stiffened boughs,
the hardened soil,
the sleepy souls.
Bees are humming a hymn,
birds are fluting the skies,

You can smell autumn
in the air,
the background spice
of browning leaves,
as evocative
as a childhood photo,
as comforting
as toast.

I love this weather,
sunshine, then heavy rain,
then sunshine again,
glistening on all
the wet surfaces.

I have warm slippers
to slip my feet in
as I pad to the dark kitchen.
There is a slice of lemon
in my glug of sparkling water.
The house hums its night song