Saturday 25 2012 That “Still” Place

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: ┬áThis is an attempt to explain “where” I am.