Chill lays a damp rest on my exposed flesh.
Morning moves with the swift flight of birds
ascending with the Sun.
What is re-born sits with ringlets of scattered
morning white tumbling, breathing.
With those two crows that take watch in the
corners of these eyes that have seen six decades
There is a rightness to this with a hand
extended into the wet dirt, moving centuries
around in the stirring of life up again.
Burying it closer to the surface this time
where green finds her rest and scattered
blooms come again because they must
The coffee is bitter in the sweet of the must have.
Inhaling the moist morning with the waft
of lemon and citronella to ward off the bitting.
A rapid scold comes from the tree tops speaking
in a foreign tongue familiar like music without
words that give a feel, a pulse, a cadence known
without remembering why.Telling the story of the
moment with absolute clarity.
There is no wrong in the want to carve my
initials across this land. Lay some bit of
myself in the claim of where I’ve been and
where I am. The safety of it is illusive, dream
like, a fugue on this Earth Path of my foot-
prints shallow and deep along the soft and
hard ways finding home.
Sitting here in the damp of this rising
morning. Being silent, listening.
