AUGUST 8, 2018, Threads of a Summer Day
Underneath the branches,
On a gently sloping hill,
The Old Black Oak lives,
Without demands.
Its thick limbs,
Under the weight of years,
Have turned and dipped,
And crept,
Along the earth,
Exploring,
Only to have twisted,
And ascended,
Strongly reaching,
Reaching back up
Towards the sky,
Resilient.
Underneath the branches,
Linens,
Draped in long shadows,
Without an agenda,
Are floating,
With hints of wildflower air
Absorbed into their fibers.
Above the soft grass,
Beneath bare feet
Of a human.
Threads of cloth,
Sway, Inspiring
Remainders,
And reminders
Of a summer day,
When walks and swims
Linger like perfume.
Favorite pants,
Worn thin,
Anticipate
A cool summer evening.
A clean,
crisp pajama top,
White and delicate,
Like Baby’s breath,
Waits patiently
For sleep.
Underneath the branches,
Summer sounds
Create symphonies,
As the winds
Play the chimes,
In oneness,
With the vibrating
chorus of cicadas,
And the crows
Call out,
From across the field,
Un-mowed,
Wildly bountiful,
Harmonizing,
As the Red Barron Circles
Towards the sky,
Moving,
Upwards.
Underneath the branches,
Balanced,
In the arms
Of the Old Black Oak,
Wrinkle free
Of demands,
A clothesline
Hangs.
A white butterfly
Circles.