These quiet hours, the first
in the days of this season long in light,
broken only by the occasional cloud,
accompanied always in bird song,
softest undulations rising and receding
within that most intimate presence
we know so clearly
These, the quiet hours.
Decent registers of concern come in colors
both varied and unexpected, beauteous unfolding
of life likened to itself, in kind, in shape and inclination
to recognize patterns of sameness
for what they are:
opportunity to converse.
Would that we would
more readily see our dissimilarities
The days begin now to play
approaching a departure of consequence,
measured moments add to the scale
weightless layers of freely given intent.