Waste Not

I collect many scraps throughout my day...

scraps of fabric aplenty, from projects

unfinished or never started, sleeves cut

from beloved shirts too worn to wear.

Scraps from the carrots, apples and

cabbage, detritus of the day’s salad or

soup. These go to my chicken friends,

and I hoard their murmured chuckles

as they feast.

Scraps of conversations (the most intriguing) 

overheard in the checkout line or while browsing

the bookstore, confidences that drift between

the shelves or over the groceries.

Scraps of memories that

float to the surface of my

day, like tea leaves from

the bottom of a cup.

But light?

I cannot think of light as scraps.

Perhaps a glint or two from a

fallen coin in the parking lot.

But light is soft and seeking,

or can be harsh and glaring,

often a comfort, although

sometimes it is what reveals

unhappy truths. This morning’s

light flows up from the whiteness

of the snowy yard to meet the

dawn trickling down through

the branches.

In the kitchen, I watch the

day’s arrival while sipping

from a cracked mug, and

buttering the last scrap

of toast.