Breath

A New England cottage,
and a strawberry-milkshake pink porch floor
at dusk; waiting
children playing in the garden
laughter rising to mingle with soft
piano notes, celebrating counterpoint
to the smell of muffins
rising in the oven.
And overhead a
formation of geese
flying north
as the oven, breathing,
warms the house.

Another old poem. Sometimes it’s good to write/think/feel about simple things.

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