*
the day drifted away
as water in a brooklet
swift and eager to reach
the valley where
I don’t care
to be
.
I wish it would have moved
as a rosary in my hand
slowly slacking down at
the rhythm of each prayer
.
loitering on the light’s hues
and warm shades on beguilement
I sense I’ve done too much
and nothing as well
.
fancying to grab you head to tail
breathing my excuses
as I start all over
.
.
*
where I’m writing from
is 4.30 in the afternoon
.
106F in the shade I inhale hot air
breathing now with relief
.
I felt worse in latter days
I do not feel the cramps of distance
.
listening with the greatest care to the smallest finch
right after letting out a clear thanksgiving
.
me by myself from inside myself
stretched out happy I fly
.
butterflies here are saffron
many and always new
.
today I can hear the wind
moving among the palms
.
the highest daylight stars
.
where not even the mountain reaches
old wrinkled giant laying down
.
tired under the hard wearing sun
looking as if crumbling
.
sunset highlighting the folds
sweating pure spirit nothing else
.
awe inspiring while putting thing in their right place
I do not wish to be somewhere else
.
.
annamosca 