The day began with coffee, cream and sugar
in a white china cup painted with pink flowers.
The dogs stirred, circling my legs,
mimicking the motion of my spoon.
Wind chimes called me to the porch,
to sit and watch an airplane
painting white contrails on a blue canvass of sky,
flying to catch up with tomorrow,
while I am rooted here in the Before and After.
The moon fell and the sun rose in a late September dance
set to the music of whispering trees and mockingbirds.
Entranced by the slow awakening
of my sleepy New England town,
it was nearly an hour
before the memories of mornings together
crept up silently to sit by my side.
.
paul Bluestein has written poetry for many years, but has just recently begun to submit his work. He is hoping Foxglove Journal will be one of his first steps forward on this new journey. He is a physician (OB-GYN) by profession (retired … or just plain tired), a self-taught musician (guitar and piano) and a dedicated Bridge and Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He writes poetry because The Muse, from time to time, calls him unexpectedly and keep ringing insistently until he answers, even if he doesn’t want to talk with her just then.
Foxglove Journal 
This poem is so evocative, and it also taught me a new word (contrails) so thanks for sharing. 🙂
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