I sit
in the same chair
to write
each day.

Up,
to my left,
is a large window
I gaze out of
looking for inspiration.

It is dark
when I start.

As the day breaks
forms appear
out of the darkness.

The old swingset
my daughter used to play on;
starting to deteriorate
now that she’s gone.

The house across the street
where the Rabbi and his family lives,
with cars coming and going
full of mysterious stories
to be remembered and retold.

As the morning light grows
the incomplete garden
comes into focus;
the struggling lilac bush
from my late mother’s house,
the pile of rocks
with the yellow jacket’s nest
I once disturbed,
the bird feeder
left behind
by the previous owners,
and random plants
waiting
to be organized
into beauty.