I’m reading poetry penned by others
far more adept than I.
Perhaps my time is better spent
marveling at their virtuosity
Wishing for a measure of their ingenuity,
a dash of their dexterity.
Listening to the Twohee
chinging outside the window
as the sun slips silently from night.
Her brushes aren’t loaded with vivid colors
more of a sky blue pastel with an overlay of white.
Or I missed the mural.
I’d like to think this all leads somewhere
Then I remember, somewhere is here.
No other place holds its capacity.
It is real, concrete, tangible, visible, malleable.
The gentle steam rising from the deck
as the sun connects with the dew,
the shimmering light on the branches
of ancient cornelian cherries lined along the road,
the pileated woodpecker hammering against the eaves,
the breathing in and the breathing out.
Reverently attending to the essence of being alive.
kastilwell
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