POETRY | LIVING

On The Third Day

Of suffering from a cold

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I had worn my dressing gown through the days of my cold,
sleeping through much of the first day until climbing up
the stairs to our bed to discard its heavy weight on my chair,
before snuggling down to sleep again through the persistent
chills, aches and sweats, repeating all again in a lower key
the next day, breaking the pattern yesterday with a long,
hot, resuscitating shower after breakfast, which required a
re-gowning as I caught up with my email and stuff at my desk,
and then, after my nap, climbing the stairs to don something
lighter, taking Hemingway with me so we could sit for a while
by my window to watch the wind and rain creeping in while
he told me some more about hunting rhino across Africa’s green
hills, through the heat and tall grass, which he never did, as I
became transfixed by the brisk wind whipping and wagging
thin branches holding on to lonely dead leaves, all the thicker
boughs and tall trunks steady and still and wet in the thin
rain blessing all, to then see a squirrel dashing up a tree holding
something in its mouth, a walnut it must be, finding a projection
to sit upon and gnaw away at his prize, flakes falling down,
his tail tightly curled underneath, turning the nut between
his paws as he…