Quiet


Tree

Nighttime falls around me. I hear the hum of life, quiet grinding of little birds, the sighing of air, a lazy passage to the stars among the haze. I take myself to a tiny, overrun garden somewhere, somewhere where I can lay on my back, hear and feel the critters around me. Phoebe, phoebe…the hoo-hoo of the dove, the chirp of a passing house finch. To smell the earth, not again but anew. Is that jasmine, geranium, the lilacs whose silky feel I’ve forgotten, do I remember their soft, fragrant blooms on my face. Just pass the garden is a dirt road, where pomegranate trees live guarded in a neighbor’s yard. A mile-long fence of blackberry bushes beckon me. Honeysuckles are suckled by purple fingers. Freckled cheeks, bleeding and dirty but happy knees, sun-bleached gaze.

I am everywhere and here. I emerge from a shallow forest and onto a white beach to see a sweet blue lake. The sun heals, and I feel myself sleeping and being absorbed into the sand. I anticipate the small breeze that sings over me, and then welcome the heat again. I meditate on the joyful sounds from the water, the wind through my ears, the hot sand burning the tips of my toes.

I fall into night and into the safety of tree limbs…good night.

One thought on “Quiet

  1. Laura B says:

    I want to find that garden and stain my fingers, too! 🙂

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