21 Years

Natty cherry topping the fence line,

sunset pests in a whirly-gig,

the wet garden, hopeful, and still.

Sunhat, coffee, pen;

all late comers to the Spring.

Harbinger bees buzz the blossoms

scented in promise.

If my swaying chair delirium

can pass for contentment,

I'm sober another year. 

The chip on my shoulder, shredded for mulch,

the sound of one hand slapping mosquitoes,

an anthem, yearning to learn.