Sunday, August 18, 2013

Everyday is a holiday, every meal a feast

Sitting at the picnic table
at the river's edge,
The early morning  sun
on my back
Chases away the
Morning chill
And the dew on the grass.
I'm enveloped by the sounds
of the morning solitude:

Clickity clack of the train
wheels across the way,
Whoot, whoot, whooting
Its good morning whistle.
The churning, chugging diesel
of the laker
Knifing through
the placid surface
the water,
The birds
chatting, chirping, cawing
a morning conversation.

I'm immersed
in the all encompassing
Spa for the soul,
The body,
The mind.

An insect stares
back at me
from the table top.
Also soaking in the sun
The ambiance replenishes
our selves

A neighbor quietly retrieves
dog poop
with baggied hand.
Waters potted

all days are good,
Some are more
gooder than