underfoot, down to the pond’s edge,
sat in the clear spot at twilight
and the hush was a bowl
of soft light placed gently
over the water, bugs
skittering the surface, the gentle
high shish of the stream entering
and leaving by the beaver dam,
hemlocks bowing, and the high
dead snags holding up the sky,
one heron watching you with legs
astraddle. Slowly you painted
yourself into the picture, breath
dropping lower. There was
nothing more you desired,
nothing needed, nothing omitted
and not a thing happened
all that evening.
I know this is out of season, but it was just published in a volume of meditation poetry, Moments of the Soul, now out on Amazon.
