Being silent… listening


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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.

3 Comments

Filed under BE HERE NOW, BIRTH. LIFE. DEATH, KAIZEN MUSE CREATIVITY COACHING, michigan, SUMMER, YPSILANTI

3 responses to “Being silent… listening

  1. “A rapid scold comes from the tree tops speaking

    in a foreign tongue familiar like music without

    words …”
    Very nice Jeanne…thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

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