Thursday, July 5, 2012

Freewrite

A place of rest
Leaning against the tennis fence
that keeps balls from flying where
they're not supposed to go
Once I sent a ball flying high
over the tall metal piping
and I sent myself to find it.
The grass waves here.
I know to fear ticks
but this sun is so hot
that I know I have a few hours
before they crawl on me
and before then
I'm going to rest here
with my butt on the dirt
and my shoulders unclenched
and see the trees move in the stillness of the heat.
There's a breeze up there
and every once in a while
it is also on my forehead
and I hope that it smoothes the wrinkles
and leaves the laugh lines.
Although those, too, can be lost in the stillness
when I step out of myself and can't sense the tremendousness
of this existence.
But for now
the red ant crawls on the ground
and I, too, am here
breathing
this is
it really is.

(with a nod to Mary Oliver)

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