Bliss

For the NaPoWriMo prompt.

Bliss

There are so many places to sit here,
where trees blow green-feathered,
and meadows stretch at either hand,
rolling down to the banks of the stream.

I can sit in the porch out of the spring breeze
and listen to birdsong known and unknown,
pick out the soloists from the chorus,
as they arrive one by one.

There is a soft warm stone to sit on
beneath the mimosa tree,
canopied by gales of bee-song, and another,
beneath the hornbeam shade for hot afternoons.

I sit, am sitting, would sit forever,
where running water makes spring thunderous,
where summer sun is broken into harmless dapples,
gently crooning with warbler music.

The stream runs on, and I rise to follow;
the removal man needs to take this chair.