The psychiatrist declares
himself pleased with my progress.
I am stable, hypomanic,
glibly articulate.
My mood feeds
on poetry and travel,
the exultation of grace.

I can face
the limits of my fate,
Ravenous for glory,
gluttonous for Art.
No work in retirement:
creativity is no work.

Outside, the lawn shines
In neon greens.
Irises, poppies break
The color plane.
Beauty, too, is no work
For the Creator.

Unlike Lowell,
My mind is quite right.