1151
morning, in my busy book
for the calligraphate
all the right words find me
in the flow
and beating my own drum
offering the world
morning shows the webs
first sunlit dew drips
ache the waking
offering up
words made into blank territory
the animals all come to feed
a cock crow tumbling into weather
folds generations past the tree
many of those whom I love here
rightway up in a sunbreeze
make my own forest of a journey
clatter of pages before
an offering
I won’t remember the secret codes
I made of myself on the day
it was digression
led me to sunshine
I cannot refuse
thinking aloud
just here
all the day
as is
was
now
and look
with love
where else?
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