It is late Sunday,
A cool breeze reaches to me,
Heavy-breathed and evading
The fading halo of sun
Outside my windowed doors,
Tickles my toes, ruffling
The raveled, fickle edges
Of my ‘writer’s recliner.’
I am alone, holy silence,
My corner livingroom
A one-woman séance
I bend into, sway of my
As I light three candles.
Three blind moons bloom,
A bright petal to my waking muse.
Night feels like a wet beach towel
Across the back patio, umbrella swimming
The atmosphere like a ghost coming home,
My house smelling of coffee,
Microwave-roasted, and still sublime.
The cinnamon and brown-sugar of a
Sweet roll, my gift offering
To the God of my empty pages.
I think of Buddha and the
Cherokee-Irish of my late grandmothers,
Then press my being into the pen,
My notebook a square-backed cupola,
My trip across the inkwell sky,
Each written line a footpath between the stars,
Jupiter swaying across the horizon
Like an old-fashioned tire swing.
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