Sweet dusty sagebrush
and sunrise mint breath,
wet tomato-leaf: scents
steep within my sun-warmed mug,
thrumming with a honey bee
hum. I want to be alone
this morn, heating up outside-in
and waiting for no one to begin the day.
Black oak, stretch beyond
the lonesome cloud house.
It’s Sunday; I would pray
if I knew how.
Instead I hold a mass of earth-
crumble damp clods of dirt
in palms upturned. I kneel in rows
of berries to worship in my church.