Today as I went about my Saturday ritual of housekeeping,

I found my lost love for the laundry and the orange peel therein

And again at midday for the sanitized scent of the dishwasher

That my sister had conscientiously turned on.

 

At the turn of the season (that is, Spring) 

I remembered my love for the green

The meaning behind it, my weakness for its beauty.

What’s more, the hues of the premature Spring sunset

Various pinks like different shades of lipstick.

 

This is true contentment, thought I to myself,

sorryless, unadulterated,

effortless, self-giving contentment,

Like peace in the presence of a good book.

 

Love for quiet

For a beach bonfire and sandy mallows.

 

No rush, no dimension of time --

Simply love for a sleepy kitten,

For moonlight and for Louis Armstrong’s voice

And of course for the orange peel in the laundry.

 

Contentment came upon me

I looked for love and found beauty

I looked for Beauty and found fulfillment.

 

The orange peel smartly sitting

 in the kitchen’s blue and black waste bin,

I remembered my love for freshly swept wood floor. 

My feet crumblessly stepping from sink to pantry

 

so kind and durable 

so lovingly worn, beneath cupboards of dish and spoon.

And just the thought of it was enough to remember

My affection for the sound of dad’s slippery socks on it

As he glides across its surface

in the early morning.