at the red

the discipline it takes to keep myself
from trimming zoids (it will only be an hour)
on friday, the day of writing
_______
how, from the loft bed perch, i lay and stare
out all the windows:
at an american persimmon and its mottled bark swaying in the wind,
at the red of a cardinal inthe foliage along the chicken yard
at the big drips of rain rolling off the corrugated metal roof edge (which are different than all the little drops in the background which are imperceptible mostly, but create a gray haze),
at all the branches (bare) that will soon be filled in with green
_______
kayah, five years old, in the dinosaur onesie
swinging (by holding robs hand on one side and baigz’s on the other)
at dinner circle

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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