Retirement

the back porch faces the lilacs

and the maple
 

an IPA in a frosty glass

in my hand
 

the wren sings from the drop line

a cascade of sweet notes

a measure or two
 

down the street a mower hums

the neighbors’ radio pulses with country western

somewhere distant, a chainsaw revs and is silent
 

the lawn before me

freshly mowed and fragrant
 

a butterfly lands on a yellow snapdragon

and is gone
 

above, the sky is deliriously blue behind the green maple leaves

high cirrus, pale and empty, drifts westward
 

my mouth full of bitter hops

there’s a good book on the table next to me
 

and the afternoon

stretches out ahead

like a sunburned prairie