.
That long exhale, now,
To unrehearsed mornings
Lasting all day,
Again.
.
Sunday church scattered us,
Like the wind, here, lost in tree leaves,
Drawing the scent of damp ground:
Something bigger and even quieter
than my own god could conjure,
Right under my feet.
.
I could barely hear the sounds
Of water toiling through rocks,
Unwavering mentor of time,
Sliding across great skies
Painted in pastel reveries:
November’s gauze, now,
So easy and gentle.
Shaken Rain 