November List

Today I kissed my husband out the door.
"A three egg omelet? Cheese?"
He pointed at my breakfast plate.
"Buttered toast? Two slices?
That's your low fat diet?"

"Just go." I kissed and pushed.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

Fall mornings at home,
Often, I'll write a poem,
or divide spring's pink primroses,
or snip showoff chrysanthemums
blooming deep maroon.

Today, I'll haul in
a hundred persimmons,
fallen to the ground last night
on brittle heavy branches.

I'll first shoo out two nosey cats,
then diddle and doodle the first hour
savoring sweet silence:
no one else home, me
and hatching baby spiders
on the living room ceiling.

I'll make a list, fourteen essential tasks
to complete before noon.

Finishing one, the persimmons,
I notice out the open kitchen door,
eight bumpy scarlet runners
winding up the cherry plum,
a teeny zucchini
under great powdery leaves,
an overripe beefsteak tomato
drooping dangerously on it's stem.

I sack the other tasks,
set the kitchen table for one,
daisy patterned cloth,
blue-rimmed china,
white linen napkin,

prepare steaming vegetable soup for one,

and sip
and slurp

until noon.