21 Years

Natty cherry topping the fence line,
sunset pests in a whirly-gig,
the wet garden hopeful and still.

Sunhat, coffee, pen;
all late comers to the spring.
Harbinger bees buzz the blossoms
scented in promise.

If my swaying chair delirium
can pass for contained contentment,
I'm sober another year. 

The chip on my shoulder, shredded for mulch,
the sound of one hand slapping mosquitoes,

an anthem yearning to learn.


Will SchmitComment