Thursday Morning

I arrange the blood pressure

machine on the table. Take my

arm from my shirt and wrap

the cuff around it.  Unstick and  restick the

velcro twice before it fits. A cup of tea.

A white bowl holds my banana and

clementine for when I’m done. Phone propped

up so I can see the time. Sit back and breath.

Look out the window. The squirrel hop, hop,

hops up the driveway,  sits up outside

the window, holding an old, black acorn.

Breath. Relax. The sun is out after days

of  rain. Five minutes yet? Breath. Relax.

I push the button. Squeeze, squeeze

squeeze. It squeezes my arm.  Exhale.

Done. It’s raining again.



Holly green. Ivy green. Virginia Creeper

green. Nandina green. Pin Oak green.

Pecan green.  Maple green. Magnolia green. White

pine green. Rose of Sharon green.  Elaeagnus

green. Climbing Wisteria green. Crawling

poison ivy green. Bamboo green. Shady

green.  Sunny green. Soaking wet,

dripping green.