whats for dinner

lying on the old sofa in the screened porch

my view is of the tree tops

bold black strokes of a calligraphers pen

drawing thick trunks and long limbs

across a carolina blue sky

filled in with sponged leaf and green buds

interrupted by fat chenille bumbles bouncing

against the screen

and the fussing of wren parents going on about whose turn it is

to feed the hungry littles

soft spring breezes from an april I’ve never lived

in my previous lives rocks me gently in this spacious afternoon

but now its five o’clock and the rumble of a late day train

shakes me from this reverie as the small dog tunes

to the trains whistling call

and I rise to rummage through the pantry

for the makings of the evening dinner

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