for you, today

for you, today, a poem
in a half-stick of butter
the globe of eggplant waiting for a recipe
avocados ripening in a bowl made out of magazines and gesso
orange cranberry scones the boy will finish off for breakfast
the plums from Trader Joe's that turned out bland and mealy
for you, today, a poem from the orchid that insists on reblooming
and coffee a little on the weak side, and a knife block adjoining a watermelon,
a postcard from Mexico, The Missouri Review, a new bank card, a to-do list,
a check to the week-long summer camp, a gumball machine capsule and
the words "after all these years"
for you, today, a poem in a quiet house, an overcast sky, a birdfeeder
empty on the deck, a tape dispenser in the shape of a chicken, the basil
managing by the window, a spiral of honey in a bowl of Greek yogurt,
Charlie and his earphones and his sleepy eyes, a dog toy eviscerated
in the living room, a bag of juggling balls, a beach towel
stained with spray paint, the weeds growing back in the front garden
for you today, a poem in the poemless, a small seed of light,
a faint rhythm riding the heavy air, carving stanzas from the room,
from the place you are sitting almost unbearably still,
holding your hands open
in welcome.