Happiness is

A day with nothing on the calendar,

alone at home with the heat humming,

homemade lentil soup defrosting.

My two craft tables cleared off, ready

for my next burst of creativity, paints

and canvases visible on open shelves.

Pouring acrylics onto canvas, tilting

as they mix and spill over the edges,

finally no inhibitions or fear a mess.

Beads, buttons, thread, embroidery

floss, needles and pins, watercolors,

metallics, spreaders and brushes. Enough

paper and fabric for two or three life-

times. A pantry filled with nuts, pasta,

tuna for the coming ice and snow.

Poetry books alphabetized by author

in my living room, calling me back

to read them again, to read aloud.

Clean sheets, a clean house, laundry

folded according to my specs, socks

sorted in a drawer by color. Cards

I made, stamped to please friends

far away. One for my godmother—

ninety, alert, still remembering stories.

Planning Thanksgiving dinner for a loved

buddy, making a list of vegetables he’ll

eat. All tasks crossed off a to-do list.

I’m with you, William Stafford

Up at four, when it’s still dark

no matter the season or the sun’s spots.

Even the cats have gone back to sleep

after their midnight races on the stairs.

Alone with my notebook, no radio,

no one calling, I fill this empty house

with the scent of coffee gurgling

and empty my head of what rattles

within my closed darkness. Today

the image of crows on the drain field,

standing out against the yellow-green

of drying grass, speaking clearly

to each other as I wish I could,

in a language both familiar and strange.

When they believe no one is eavesdropping,

they lower their pitch to a clear muttering.

Like your “noodling” in poems, William,

under one light in a farmhouse in Kansas,

where deer venture out at night and take

whatever risks come with crossing a road,

with traveling through the dark.