hearing all the silent noise
of a baby-day, i pick posies.

i hear worms crawl inches away
as i celebrate the morning's gift.

turn around quickly, the gift-giver
gone to the ephemeral wisp of a moment.

proof that something's happening here
is my imagination of a droll voice
buried in my cortex of existence.

Neil Diamond was right: I am, I said,
to no one there, not even the chair.

my attire for the day is wonderment,
with just a splash of appreciation.

for no reason, except God-given life.

08/24/2010

Posted on 08/24/2010
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