Morning

Ants were moving over their red sand nest
like satellites rearranging amongst the constellations,
orbiting the opening that led
to a damp dark infinite nest of mazes.
The smell of rot wafted across the yard,
something like the stench of decomposing flesh
or wet soil unearthed into the sunlight for the first time.
It was like the baking of clay
with seaweed and ocean life hardening inside.
The sun was a sedative bearing down on her,
heating the backs of necks and
lulling all into a state of apathetic bliss.
She watched the morning unfold
in the crabgrass: the grasshoppers blinking
in and out of sight; the willow branches drifting
like cheery, lazy pennants; swallows free-falling
to the ground in graceful undulations.

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Because-It’s-Monday-Morning Poem

Fog this morning, white milky wisps of mist

cradled my house when I awoke.

The view from the upstairs window indivisible

by sunlight.

I longed to see the old forested hills

rising lush against an ice-blue sky.

Wind kiss the shutters,

I’m shivering.

Inside I sit, sip chamomile

and write.