In seven days

By Patrick La Roque

On day one, it was my birthday.

I ate popcorn at the movies with Jacob
then Szechuan back home,
take-out—but good take-out.
My daughter baked a lovely cake too.

All week I dreamt odd dreams
a dying fish, a sacred mountain
a film actress, from old teenage galaxies;
long gone.
I gave a talk at a camera club;
tried my new hammock;
started a new book;
drank tea.

On Saturday I mowed the lawn
for the first time this year.
On Sunday we had barbecue
for the first time this year.

And our world turned
a fresh, cleansing green
shades of a hushed revolution
in seven days.