If my breath could take pen to paper, it would write . . .
. . . of chipmunks bounding from their home
. . . seen only by the garden gnome
. . . of nature’s equanimity
. . . in service to humanity
. . . of skies that are not really blue
. . . but look that way to me and you
. . . of bird-songs welcoming the day
. . . while ants build mounds in reddish clay
. . . of all the things I must get done
. . . once I absorb a bit more sun
. . . of perfect stillness of the trees
. . . despite them swaying in the breeze
. . . of blazing suns and arctic cold
. . . and solar systems new and old
. . . of morning dew upon my shoe
. . . and of my gratitude for you