Calm are the pieces of sky 
caught in the cow troughs
fallen and gentle for holding 
softly their muzzles
against the simmer of flies

Calm are the bird chimes, 
notes and notes piecemeal
through the written day; 
and whorls of butterflies, 
brown interstices
in slatted morning air. 

Calm is the great pine 
its rust-red boughs
lit by battalions 
of emerald ribs
and the snickering
of parrot beaks.

Calm is the walking:
walk on, walk on
into what’s always here
waiting like a view.
Is it possible we make it lovelier
by opening our eyes?

8 thoughts on “Lullaby

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