Hang the Lights Meditation
Hang the outdoor lights on Saturday morning,
two colorful sections, like strings of gum drops,
along the rain gutter length.
Awkwardly shuffle the step ladder,
foot after clattering foot,
clips in pocket, lights in hand,
in and out of warm sun, cool shadow.
After trial and error, settle on
t-shirt and blue cotton work shirt.
Abandon the light jacket.
Startle the feisty hummingbird
at the feeder beneath the eave.
Pause to reflect on the empty spider web,
sagging like a vacant house
along a country road.
Maneuver around the prairie penstemon and rosemary,
the coiled hose. Beware the low trellis cross beam.
Do all this in silence when no one is home.
When you are finished,
step back to the sidewalk, take it all in,
smile a modest half-smile,
be happy with your work.