Someday . . .

Out of the musty winter house where I live mired,
especially today, I’d like to move to the desert and
live in a cabin, eating vegetables and rice
while the dry wind rushes down the arroyos.

I’d paint the vista of mountains in the distance,
finally learn to play the flute I bought in Montana,
and when people come to visit, I’ll give them
my cot of pine needles and grass and smile enigmatically
in my hammock stretched from porch to the Olive tree and
hum nonsensical tunes, so warmly content
the guests would envy me and know how lucky I am to
live my way.