( invisiblegreen )
This day so quiet and
small, full of tiny
accomplishments,
like
a good night's sleep
despite
pollen-clogged airways,
a couple new bras,
a vacuumed floor,
an opening rosebud,
a silent sunset.
Is this
what life is for?
If I measure my days
by material accomplishments,
today was a bust, but
if I measure my accomplishments
by pleasure given,
this is what I gained today:
a smile from the elderly woman
next door when I stopped
to chat; a gradual relaxation
from the trembling hands
of the cashier who wrapped
my new lingerie (she was
my student once: a shy girl
embarrassed by seeing
what her teacher wears
underneath.
I remembered her name,
and her major, and actually
made her laugh, and the trembling
stopped); a purr
of contentment from the cat
as I brushed her; another purr
from the other
when I shared my lamb
at dinner. A check
to help my landlady
with necessary repairs.
A quiet sunset, joy from a song I've always loved to hear.
And this poem,
if you can call it that.
Indeed this day --
this small, quiet day --
has been a booming success.
