I am still upright. Bone is connected to tendon,
Ligament to filament. I’m breathing,
and breath leads to song.
My brain, while I'm alive, is not just flesh; it is a canvas.
As long as I’m still here, any poem is possible.
On Saturday morning, I sit with coffee
and the best writing I can find.
Better to sit outdoors, let the dog take her
desultory walks around the property,
show the squirrels what’s what.
They take advantage of the feeders,
using brute force, if necessary,
to grapple the last seeds from their cages.
Dog gives them the stink-eye and they shrink
back into the branches of a water oak.
Meanwhile, I wrangle meaning and juice
from the Oxford American, sighing at
photographs of old blues musicians with
solemn lakes for eyes,
reading a poem about birds aloud
to the audience in the trees.
Our next-door neighbor, a vigorous man
who builds his own room additions and
composts everything, tells me he had leukemia,
had a marrow transplant.
“I’m a survivor,” he says.
Yes, I think. I can see that.