Yesterday
An oppressive still
has settled the morning.
The gray water of the bay
is as motionless as concrete.
I would like to float from here
but cannot find lift
even on the breath
of these words,
they remain stuck on a page
weighted with consequence.
Yesterday, there were places
where I could go,
the wild and overgrown
far corners of a backyard
or high up in the branches
of a tall tree in the unfenced
freedom of a park at the end
of the street.
There I was unobserved
beneath a sky that was endless
and not bent into the lens
of a microscope. Birds
and newly minted dragonflies
flew through the sunlit air
lifted by psalms rising
ballooned with meaning
towards a “somewhere”
not circumscribed
by a name.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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