now this is what I feed myself: sleep
in the nest of my feather bed; buttered
cream of wheat with goat’s milk and cardamom

beethoven quartets, shimmering jazz
renata tebaldi’s legs wrapped around
verdi. poems that bloom like roadside daisies

jane hirshfield, seamus heaney
basho. rilke
white chrysanthemums in a blue vase

my fingers like warm wax around the barrel
of this pen; lined paper beaded with the
mercury of my heart. the peace of things

their comfort, silently offered, their patient
giving. round plates with red and yellow rims
cobalt cups, hot as the kiln which fired them

the perfect heft of stainless steel forks
shallow ponds of spoons. the beauty ― the
sturdy, honest beauty of things, ungelded

by tricks of light on water, innocent
of tidal undertow


Guest contributor:  Copyright © Hiro Boga, from Rumours of Home.  Hiro is a mentor and guide to visionary entrepreneurs.  Her writing inspires and touches the heart. You can learn more about her work at wisdom at