A Padded Wicker Chair

Sweet, heavy smell of rain on the wind.

Heavy blossoming and greening dogwoods, young tender leaves quivering.

Mountains, some covered in early morning clouds, both rising 

In clear sight. 

Birdsong. Dozens perhaps. Lyrical, sharp, deep, excited, playful.

From this porch, in this padded wicker chair. 

Two teenage girls in running attire running, at least one of them, the other walking and adjusting her technology to better shut out something, the outside and maybe also the in. 

Landscapers with trailers draped in mowers and trimmers and tanned workers sleepily going to there somewhere. 

The earth is awake and so am I. 

From this porch and this padded wicker chair. 

Feelings emerge from nowhere or somewhere triggered by something or nothing. Cling to them, they remain. Release them and release them and release them. Some drift on easily. Others, well...yes, they do too. 

Sensations on the skin or inside deeper.

Peace, agitation, softness, heaviness, darkness, light.

Holding to one or the other for one or more moments. Appearing, returning and dissolving into the next.

Always a return to breath or birds, or blossoms, or green, or sunlight dappling through trees or thick clouds. Back to the breath, to home.

A ceaseless but sometimes quiet ebb and flow. 

Sitting on a front porch in a padded wicker chair.