some nights i think of it,
moving to malibu, just as i stretch,
like a cat stretches, to my full length,
as though i am easing into cold waters.
i imagine the blue of the sea;
the bright green leaves of the geranium
on the patio, the bright pink blooms,
the yellow sun and white sand,
in the distance, white triangles,
from the deck, wind chimes.
i will be as content and as happy
as balboa. i will have breakfast
at my wicker table and in my wicker chair,
with the cats watching. i will taste
salt on my lips after coffee.
my door will be open, when you come,
you will carry a loaf of bread,
a bunch of flowers, the sunset
is brilliant; we might as well be anywhere.
mary k. stillwell via the writer's almanac