Moving to Malibu 

Mary K. Stillwell 

Some nights I think of it,

moving to Malibu, just as I stretch,

like a cat stretches, to my full length,

as though I am easing into cool waters.

I imagine the blue of the sea;

the bright green leaves of the geranium

on the patio, the bright pink blooms,

the yellow sun and white sand,

in the distance, white triangles,

from the deck, wind chimes.

I will be as content and as happy

as Balboa. I will have breakfast

at my wicker table and in my wicker chair,

with the cats watching. I will taste

salt on my lips after coffee.

My door will be open. When you come,

you will carry a loaf of bread,

a bunch of flowers. The sunset

is brilliant; we might as well be anywhere.