A summer sunrise in the south is a sacred happening - the sounds, sights and smells of dew covered greenery, birds awaking, and the sun slow to lift from the eastern fields.
I lay with my lover in a predawn
Sundrop awaiting the alarm
that will end this embrace
for the moment, alone
with our thoughts
Of each other
fresh in the wrinkling sheets
and folds of our minds
where all the time in the world
seems safe in this rosy sunrise bubble
with us
There is no rush until
the radio awakes
except this morning by some chance
it is the CD player
instead of important news intruding
from the public station sleepy still
but now sings
The cedar flute of a friend
and a meditation born in the red rock canyons
the home of those who have been longer
brought here to this wet green spring sauna haven
a softer echo than stone
Slipped-through-the-dust-crack spider
and smaller-than-screenmesh wingsmith
linger
because this is an old house
and here love and weddings
and death and mourning happen
occasionally
over decades
but each spring
the insects do their thing
same as it ever was
Take up and carry on and mate
and feed
and hunt
and hunger
intense as summer rain
in the brief shimmer moment of their
existence
Until they are found by the broom
or vacuumed into ether-mist bags
in a time-honored ritual
where naught but the tools
change
In the laughing dawn of bittersweet
a single tear of temporary parting
but there is no mourning today
and no broom to sweep us
away