Stella to the blue

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

datum

....given a different latitude & longitude
the drape of water might have felt different

given a certain tincture of contentment
there might have been time contained within the velvet box of us

given a moon phase reflected in amber & nobility
we might not be here now

perhaps there would be cake
or the repetitive lapping splash of tides

given riches or earth resplendent in darkness biding
sunbeams hiding
beyond the atmospheres of this golden field

would we be?
would we care enough to pause in the pace & space of our hours
to notice
the tightening recognition of the impossible

venus in gemini

of a June Morning . . . this morning
wrapped in the haze of promised storms

this morning

coolness
grayness

the fullness of birdsong fills my body with a trembling vibration
my blood becomes feathered
rising
rising
to
search for the sun