Sitting in the
kitchen, I look out the window
at the green meadow, the tree line, the mountain range beyond.
The scene is painted freshly each morning with a new color palette
by an impressionist who has a vested
interest in the landscape.
The clock in the downstairs hall chimes,
a call to prayer as I sip morning coffee,
added inspiration lest my brain show up late.
In the poplar, two birds debate philosophy,
St. Thomas versus Hawking, the wind of their debate
flapping leaves like Buddhist prayer
The rising sun changes angles of light by degrees,
and I am bathed in a yellow beam
for a minute or two, or perhaps eternity.
It is good to be here, transfigured for a sacred moment in time.
Did I mention that it was good to be here?