flannel sheets worn and soft.
The men rise early with orange vests and
heavy arms while the girls
find their fancy dresses, red velvet and colored tights.
I extend my time in bed as much as possible,
move slowly,
take in the red of their lips,
the dissarray of hair,
the silver-white mountain peaks and
golden earth, open wide.
There's something about unihabited space,
mile after mile of prairie,
hill, then mountain,
rocks and sage,
a frozen creek,
a still resevoir.
I settle inside,
chest softens,
mind slow and soft.
The children color and chat,
play hamsters and kitties, baby eagles,
throw earth at ice,
slide and search for crystals,
the sun just warm enough,
the cold breeze of November,
quiet and comfort of old friends as
we settle in, move through shared space,
cook and clean,
gather and come,
go,
flow in the rhythm of a simpler time,
languid and luxurious.
there's a settling in the chest
a deeping of breath,
a slowing --
after months of early mornings,
lessons and lunches,
deadlines and departures,
moods and mess.
The settling is like nectar,
poured down a withered throat,
necessary and perfect.
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