Finding Time

Finding Time

Arthritic hands, toughened by hard times,
now weakly grab the green-gray armrests
of his seasoned years-old teak chair
on the high deck built with those same hands
more than thirty years gone.

He settles on the chair after brushing off
the leaves and leavings of acorn shells,
taking a sweeping look around
the yard overgrown to a fault with every
plant that survived the winter snows.

The brash-mad chasing of three squirrels
makes him want to lecture them on polite
behavior. The silliness of the thought makes
him grin inside. A tawny wren clings to the top
of the old wooden house with its tiny door.

He tries to answer the amorous male's call
with a poor imitation that the eager, addled
bird finds attractive, again calling absurdly
loud from such small lungs. No point in
trying to fool the horny little bastard.

His glass of sipping whiskey lasts almost
an hour as the peaceful privacy of his
backyard soaks into his soul like the smoky
bourbon goes from tongue to reach
his satisfied mind taking in his own oasis.