in the still quiet thrum of morning
all the words have been written
no revelation
no revolution
no eureka-thesaurus moment where words & time roll into the place of always
nothing but the early thrum of day dawning
morning
stillness
a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
ghost dog curled against my back--pressing pressing
tendered always
a sky carousel-blue...unreal in hand-dipped perfection
sunshine strikes my face
eyes close
here upon a weathered-dried-in-the-sun cotton quilt
in a cicada field green-summer-golden
morning
stillness
a breeze barely rocking the curly willow
a distant thrum from rivers wide
pressing
all the words have been written
there is no more than this ...
a bluejay sings its warrior song
claiming this piece of carousel-blue
always
Stella May June
