Grounding

There is goodness in a green morning still holding a velum moon.  I am lightened by the sight of bees, tiny aeronauts of wonder, darting.  Having a pine stump full of years and years of rings on which to sit solid, my soul settles. I am swept up in the tessellation of shadow as birds fly over, and there’s purpose in black ink on paper, words falling one by one. Each is palpable as a pebble to roll between my fingers and around my palm, testing texture, weighing, before setting it down to stay.

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