Haze skirts the hills.
The day will break hot.
Now though, I step
Into space where
Manufactured time does
Not exist.
As I slip through the threshold,
The mundane world vanishes like
A rejected blanket on a
Warm summer’s night.
Here I stand isolated and
Insulated but deeply connected.
A crow’s morning call, Caw, caw,
Penetrates pleasantly puncturing
The shelter.
Sitting on my garden stool
Surrounded by fundamental Life,
Not primordial but,
A cooperation between human and plant,
A natural hybrid.
In here, even for the briefest
Moment hope renews like
A young shoot recently escaped.