The Pleasures of Merely Maintaining

Life, for lack of

a better word,

is maintenance,

resistance, acquisition,

healing, recovery,

discovery, repair,

or, all in all,

the constant need

for refueling

and rebuilding

and cleaning up

or running away

from the results--

as our house ran

out of fuel

last night,

and this morning Sarah

loaded baby Sequoia

into the blue truck

and tracked down

the propane man

in his white truck

making rounds

down in the valley

and demanded

he come up to our cold

dark home on the Rim,

and so he did,

very helpfully

and with apologies

and a bill

for the landlords

to swallow in

their own profound

set of resources,

beyond our ken.

But before he did

I'd built a great fire

against the frost

and scattered fistfuls

of birdseed about

outside for jays and juncos

and runty chipmunks

and scruffy mule deer

and maybe our resident

couple of denning foxes

to squabble over in the old

blue snow, then sat

down to pay

a slew of bills

from doctors

and storage units

and government agencies

with the resources

that currently dwindle

in our bank's tank

of imaginary coinage

and invisible credits,

all the while nibbling

stale organic oatmeal

and raisin vegan

cookies for breakfast

with strong black tea

heated on resourceful

Sarah's miniature

camp stove,

my own nibbling and

scratching just keeping

up with the juncos, those

black-capped fluffballs

of busy, busy, busy,

always competing

for refueling, for

keeping systems

running, hopping, flying,

maintaining, maintaining

for one more

February day

at least, at least today,

each little victory,

each little renewal earned

in each scattered little feast.