One of the ridiculous pleasures
Of flirting with disaster is that,
Having yet once more skirted the worst,
One feels inclined to kick up one's heels
And caper about delightedly
Because everything, briefly, seems easy.
Is it raining? How magnificent,
The world's more magical for the mist.
Are there too many bills overdue?
What an accomplishment to post them!
Does the body continue to ache?
How delightful, it aches less and less!
Does one seek out the rim of the cliff
On good days in hopes of feeling fright
Enough to trigger genuine glee?
This cabin's on a cliff, high in mists
On a wet, green summer afternoon,
Rain syncopating the cabin roof,
Sarah's soup simmering on the stove,
My thoughts full of their own cleverness,
My curdled corporeality
Curled up on a comfortable sofa
Like an old tomcat, self contented,
And this world is good enough for me.