A black-top, farm-to-market, road window breeze.
An old friend, sunrise, eases through the objecting screen.
Dawn beams softly off her morning eyes.
Dew sleeping, on her lazy yard,
still cool from twilight,
wet under a set of bare feet,
bare to the knees,
walking into a forest of pine trees,
striding alone to hurry back before breakfast
when the anxious kitchen writes a poem
Careful are the pots not to clang, cling, or clatter
Silence matters at such an hour
when orange tea is poured
and good ears are needed to listen.
The heavy table is familiar like dish and spoon
It's the empty sheets of sweating paper
that are so strange
She could've written a novel by now,
but now the river is bathing her with mind adrift ...
... fish and dragonflies.
Sunday's perfect dress awaits inside a short closet
. It matches her fabriced skin ... fish and dragonflies.
She appears in the clearing
where shade gathers to perch until evening
when shadows stretch upward onto walls.
She is complete
... oven-toasted peach marmalade parading her sweet self
with the lure of tomorrow in her eyes