I heat my coffee in the micro-wave, leftover from yesterday.  At ten dollars a pound for the French roast beans which I favor, I cannot bear to toss the half-pot that remains from my solitary breakfast and so, on Monday mornings, I drink the rest.  It still satisfies.

The outside air lures me.  I sit in the rocker facing west, wrapped in a shawl.  My hands fall idle, except for the occasional lift of the crystal mug.  In a few minutes, I will throw myself into the crazy stretches that I call “yoga”. But not just yet.  For now, I will linger, breathing the mild, soothing scent of last night’s rain.

It’s the twenty-third day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without complaining.  Life continues.

“Morning” by Sara Teasdale

I WENT out on an April morning
All alone, for my heart was high,
I was a child of the shining meadow,
I was a sister of the sky.
There in the windy flood of morning
Longing lifted its weight from me,
Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering,
Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.

This volunteer grew while the pot stood on my deck last fall with a scant handful of leftover dirt. It survived the winter inside and now thrives on my porch.