That strange bird, making its chipping call again.
I open my calendar, hoping to find a blank square
promising the richness of time as an empty cup to fill.
I have come to recognize
the joy of my own company—
a simple diet filled only with my favorite dishes.
What to savor first? These expected words or an early morning trip
down to the garden before the day has warmed
and sound has found it?
The men will arrive at 8.
On each side of me, the chipping of concrete
and dry rub of concrete filler. Hours later, the brush.
Their day as productive as my day will be.
Seeing the empty square,
my choice when and how to fill it.