Before much else occurs, I place my hands upon the ciphers,
and I pry away the adages that each may tremble into. As if
a vacuum holds the most persuasive draw. This morning,
yesterday's gray cast has been replaced by moderato yellow
light. Ways to plant the thought of now into some future moment slip into the current capabilities I think are here. With the rectangular appearance of the hours, available
momentum taps into the willingness I lead toward easier,
deliberate fresh water that will weigh something. I take a
leave of absence from centrifugal force, also. The handsome
waylaid tasks embrace me back, because I say so. If a dowry,
then a human being to match. The zither of abundant music
lands to shift the psyche. How I want to table nothing. And
the land, the waves, all ways of going nowhere, while the
distance can be brought home toward inherent fact.
Campsite, mountains, bowl, the fingering for high C on
a flute reputed to be platinum
Sheila E. Murphy
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