Simplicity and beauty in the moment.
Every morning, about this time,
a church resting about a mile from here,
rings their bells. A lawn of
apple trees, heavy with fruit,
bless the manicured grass.
Colliding pregnant clouds
mosaic the rich blue of the sky.
The church structured from
gray rectangular bricks,
planks of hard wood,
a black medieval door, a steeple
housing the flared dome of vertical music,
all equally rich in their tone,
know nothing is permanent.
When it's breezy, as it is this morning,
I can hear the echo of the bells,
a practiced toll
whispering your name in my body,
allowing me to believe in
the beauty of the universe.
I am drinking red wine in bed,
knowing the breeze this morning,
sharing the dance of church bells
feeling the damp changing air
warm, kind mottled earth,
visiting my square window.
Under the white sheets,
the downy-soft cream of feathers,
I watch you,
slowly, as to not miss the silky bouquet
of swaying berries drawn to your lips, and
shimmering tendrils worship
your regal purple cheek bones,
laying in lassitude, I am
struck by being a woman.