John Kooistra
An Epic
This morning
I'd like to write
an epic. I admire them
so much.
But though it's early
it won't happen.
I'm too happy
right in this room with my coffee,
listening to opera
and birds singing in the rain
outside the open window.
Nose between paws
the dog dozes on her rug.
I look at her
but see nothing epic.
Just contentment
like someone
enjoying warm mittens.
Raindrops smack
maple leaves
not ten feet away.
I see them quiver.
For a few moments
the sun breaks through.
Wet leaves shine.
The music opens
into a great distance.
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