Ode To A Sunday Morning.

I like quiet in the house,
like a church before the service,
Or the deep woods on a day
with no wind to make the leaves
chatter like children at play.
After the night
I start my day
thinking about my dreams
and directing a stream
of chaos into a plan
for the next steps
that will take me to nightfall
once again.

I count it worth considering
that a dream
might contain my voice
and hold my attention.
But know that I might turn away
at any time that I hear
the chickadee’s concerto
or am captured
by one perfect petal
cast down on the lawn
by an impatient tree
that must make room
for its cloak of green
to suit the Summer sun.

Time waits in the wings
not caring where I go
but seeing that
I return to sit
on my moss-covered wall
where time stops
but silence moves
the day closer to its end.
It writes a play I perform
in my dreams
as sleep lifts the curtain
on another world. 

 

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