By Patricia Cori
My back pressed into the old chair
My mother nursed me there
So long ago
A little threadbare for the wear
But still there…
A breeze from the window comes
warmed by the sun.
The scent of jasmine, is it?
Or lilacs, from the hill above?
There again, just a subtle trace …
That fleeting blush across my face.
How sweet … the smell of fresh cut lawn,
that too has its place
in my landscape.
There are no greater moments than these
just to breathe.
To need nothing more than this
Is truly bliss.
There is nothing more
No other wish.