That “Still” Place
I am in that “still” place…
Even the wind doesn’t blow
No movement in the sage
Coyolte hasn’t been by
Fox sleeps in his den
Quail is somehere else
The branches are bare
Where the Ravens
Usually hang
Upsidedown…
Beau sleeps in the sun
I am painting
It is “visual poetry”
No words form
In my mind
Or on my lips
Sand is running
Through the hour glass
Crashing to the floor
In slow motion
So quickly
The sun sinks
Into spectacular color
The day isn’t long enough
I look up and even
You are not there
*note: This is an attempt to explain “where” I am.
annellannell 