What You Never Wrote in Terms of What You Did

The sun is in the window.
The sun’s all over the floor.
You could be doing nothing.

You could be finishing chores.
The worst thing is to be torn.
The sin of accomplishment

Taunts even the fulfilled life.
Have you done all you needed
To feel you needn’t do more?

Yes, and yet here you are, cloaked
In contentment’s own daylight,
Soaked in the pleasure of sun,

And quiet, and nothing much
Needed until tomorrow,
Still thinking, should you do this

Or better you should do that?
That letter you want to write
(More truly, to have written),

The parts of tomorrow’s tasks
You could maybe get done now.
A ground squirrel, its cheeks stuffed,

Waddles up to the glass door
While crossing over the porch
And eyes its own reflection.

Everything’s more important
Than this moment, than writing
About this, than reading this,

And then, there it is. The bliss.
You’re getting to the bottom
Of being while you’re dying

Happily in your rocker,
Bathed in sunlight and watching
That squirrel determined to live.