Turning my chair, I face the day outside instead of the kitchen.
The Amazon truck pulls up with flashing lights for an early delivery.
“Red sky at morning
Sailor’s warning.”

T’s removed, finally, the festive globes from the bush beside
the front porch but strands of lights remain.
I told him, “The bush won’t bloom.”
Why should the hidden lilac buds bother? They have no need for the crowd, they have nothing to prove.
Why compete? True beauty is content with an audience of One.
I’m aware of vibrations inside the left side of my skull, hearing
diminished to outside noise. Right ear takes in sounds of Wind.
Box delivered, truck pulls away from curb.
Who cares about the box? What counts is inside. And some just prefer a mess.