Morning Meditation


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Spring wind winds the village,
swirls sparkling shrubs
stirs a shift behind the squirrels eye,
serpentine through fluid Sunday
Oya’s whisper, rushing hum
made into season.

Trees leanin’ into newness,
a cactus winks at the sun
sinks back into comatose prayers,
sleep is a warm mantra.

Congas.
Their melodic appeal
reminds us that here,
drum and breeze
are free to be kin.

 

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