One morning when I dig
brown earth with bare fingers and
listen to the light wind
shuffle through oak and elm,
I hear the silver of chimes
dangle from a thin wire,
the cadence of children
laugh themselves dizzy
like swirls of bubbles at play.
A choir of robins
trills gossip and questions,
a thicket of poems in the understory.
Each voice
from each perch
sings
through a window of sky.
I remember
to remember
how good this day is:
to slow through creation
along with the breeze
as it gentles and
praises the trees.
Art credit: "The Gardener," oil on panel, painting by George Seurat.
Your poems always take me right where you are. You paint poems with your words and images.
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