Sitting on a blanket
sinking into the grass
rooted in the live dust of soil,
I am learning the sounds and patterns of the birds as they
silhouette against the sun
- not to own this place, but to be accepted into the folds
of the clearing's rolling skirts,
the weed-woven pockets in the meadow's palm.
In the sanctuary
I can let the quiet rustle of trees
trick me into a warm, filling loneliness,
and let the cars rush by in the distance
feign an ocean's lullaby,
the seasong of calm among the swarm.
As I leave this place
my shadow falls with eager grace into the
slight imprint the grass allowed me.
This hollow of earth - proof of my stay - will be gone
as soon as it was left,
lifted in alms to the sun
as the dew wakes the morning blades
with its chill shower of newness.
But still - it was left.
