Not yet mid-January
but here’s the vetch, stretching
up through the beige sycamore leaves
at ease on the winter-killed grasses,
tendrils reaching for light
and a purchase.
Obscene
the placid beauty of this day
in these foothills. It’s the oldest
guilty secret: the way life spools on, tromps
along, anyway. Cup of water from the tap.
Backlit geraniums in their uncracked
terra cotta pots. The inhale
I think nothing of.
