Ensconced in a threadbare quilt
wrapped around her shoulders,
she sits in a bay window island
lost in reverie
as the gentle mists
of Washington, falls.

The suspension of water droplets, tease the dawning day;
they soften building angles and the sculpted sharp lines,
into a blur,
of rounded shapes.
A lonely horn echoes basso produndo
somewhere,
startling her out of her thoughts
then slowly dies down into the grayed silence .

Settling back into the frayed blanket
she resumes the mental walkabout;
dreaming of happiness and contentment,
comfort and warmth,
small things seemingly plebeian.

We humans, are made to dream,
and hope;
imaginings we hold in our hearts
sometimes keeping unto the grave,
occasionally made manifest and
treasured,
in small islands,
located in bay windows,
as gentle mists
fall.

I nestle in the outspread Navajo blanket
the sounds of the evening echo around me;
the earth beneath
warm and comforting
in the hollow
I have made for myself.

 

Although expectant
my body and mind are still
as the sun makes its colorful exit;
salmon pinks, desert yellows and serge blues
bloom and merge in its trail
as the night encroaches.

At the denouement

slowly I rise,

fold my blanket
imprinting the evening show
in my mind.

 

Some have scientific reasoning
theories of charged particles,
plasma and positive ions
to explain and elucidate what I see;
but I know
that I live where the sky
in its beauty
touches the land
and me.