Sit in the old white chair, you know, the one with the silver arms
and the rent in the fabric of the seat. Once white, now turning green.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Close my eyes. Give myself over to the sun.
Feels like a miracle that it's here again. Which it is.
Walk down the garden. The lawn saturated with rain.
She's clearing the old grapevine, the strangle of ivy.
Needs my help. So I pull down the severed vines.
Feeling absurdly like Tarzan.
Come inside. The temperature drops.
Know I need to move: throw another log on the fire.
I can see a line of trees behind the house over the road.
That's it, that's all. And that's fine for now.