Monday at Midnight

About Monday:

It is a slightly less full Harvest Moon,
the last image of the day
on this cold clear night.

I could see my breath,
they say it might frost tonight.
The midnight air smells slightly of wood smoke
damp earth,
turning leaves.

Yes, I think the leaves of
early fall emit a certain

familiar odor.

The sounds of traffic,
nearby construction,
voices of neighbors,
backwards beeping of
the Comcast Truck
the Medical supply truck
the Garbage truck
have all faded now.
Quiet . . .
accept for the slow,
low sounds of the clock on the wall
reminding me of the hour,
bed awaits.

The things I touched this day,
besides the dusty contents of
a huge catchall closet,
the piles of fresh laundry
spread across the sofa
waiting to be folded.
Maybe tomorrow.
The warm dishwater,
the soft fur of my
Girl-cat as she dozed
upon my knees.

The taste of Monday
still lingers on my tongue,
the remnants of
my birthday cake.
Coconut,
coconut crème in between
six fluffy layers of
vanilla cake
slathered with a
melt-in-your-mouth butter crème.
Oh, the calories.
Ah—well,
what are birthdays for,
if not a gift of twenty pounds.

The last things my heart has felt
this early October night,
is gratitude for life,
for sight, hearing, touch, taste
and a warmness
of heart
for the beauty of life
the beauty of fall
the beauty of
grace.

For but the grace of God,
go I.