As an apology to the meadow
the sun slides into the distant tree-line.
It is for the day spent in bright blindness.
And on that red horizon, the ocean
consoles the harbor with the bored brooding,
lapping, brooding fingers
tracing a blue escape.
The birds outside my window command a different invocation…
a calming song, a candle to forget
There is an understanding, obviously.
I think about roosts…
a netting of branches, sometimes
the broken wood splintered like a child’s
embrace of a misplaced toy;
And I see
a bird nuzzling the tree into
dreams of shallow breezes on the wings of a