season of linger
cupped in the dark of first day
waiting for some must to move me
lulled by this one’s feathered breath
and that one’s quiet step
I linger
somewhere close the dog lifts her head
and rests it down again
a bird calls out sharply once
or twice and then thinks better of it
soon soon I will rise and descend
brew a cup of ancient tea
accept the mystery
of a taste so native to me
the dream tide recedes
leaving rivulets in the sand
the brush strokes of the traffic
raise a brave flag that calls me
soon I will
