There is a softeness to this morn.
A quiet cushion of nothing surrounds.
Absent of noise in empty house,
save the slow whir of the fans overhead.
The purr of appliance from time to time,
nothing to disturb a train of thought
nor hinder the birth of idea.
The mind can now slip image to hands,
through delicate slender fingers,
to keyboard for placement of thought
upon page. I can create in still
life, vision that will stir imagination.
Reveal the dance of dust in beam
of light surreal through window.
The optic impossible of growth
of cactus, flourish of violet
and burst of fern in light
perceptible, yet uneventful
at any other time, save
for this quite moment of reveal.
The slide of mere dew of morn
collected on pane, such a slow
metered pace as to boggle the mind
as to what it really matters
in the scheme of all things.
But at this moment, a joy, a small
sense of artistic movement of drop.
In this silent time my eye will catch
upon soft sway of tree in slight breeze.
Ordinary pictures, unnoticed amid the din.
Disturbance of pattern, brought on
by the presense of another. This quiet
I savor. I let it feel me, as I feel
with mind and spirit it's cocoon
of pause around me. It leads the inner
vision to words. Which spill on page of white.

WhiteRose 10/06/02