Naked toes nestle into
the folds of my hammock, which
swings, easy, like the gentle
head nod that accompanies
soulful conversation—the
air massages the oak leaves
above, and the four of us
are in holy existence;
synchronized we inhale
and loosen.

How sublime does it feel
to be aware of all this.

And to wonder:

Is serenity there, in
the peach glow from the frosted
glass kitchen window, as I
fill my bottle with water
to go for a morning run?

Is it there in the cold
shower that fills my bones with
nutrition, flushed from the hot
blood I get to call my own?

Is divinity present
in the afterglow of a
hug, gifted by someone to
whom light is bold and steady?

When I lay my ear against
the pillow in the soft, easy
darkness, is it holy there?
Is it present when I fold
the tips of my toes into
the cool covers and snuggle
in deep?

And what about these
words which form, soft and languid
from the depths of my mind, now
relaxed and loose in the swing
of my hammock, the rise of
the breeze through all the oak leaves;

yes, I do believe
serenity is in the
forming of letters, too. And
how sublime does it feel to

The reader brings his or her own experience to a poem and gives it meaning.

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