How can I feel fear,
how can sadness dim the day
when I step into the beauty of this
gleaming new dawn?
The fulcrum of the Earth tilts
toward goodness and I will
ride along, I will open, worshipping as if
this is our last day.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023
In the meadow the orchard grass
stands tall as July, tickling the
belly
of a glad old rescue horse.
I lift my face to the light, eyes
closed,
but I can still see. The red color of life
illuminates my eyelids, my own
circulation
sharing what it feels like to
speak
with the noonday sun.
I will drink this good glowing
light. I will
inhale it to survive the unspoken
hardships.
The great harp of summer, the insects
and birds,
resounds with silver
glissandi. The velvet grass
bends to the wind like I lean to
your speech,
faint and a little garbled. You had a
stroke; you still haven’t
accepted that
six years later.
But the whispering leaves still
unwrinkle their glory.
The green apples are hopeful
syllables clustering
on the old Gravenstein. Some have already fallen.
But we are still here together.
The sun plays upon us
evenly. Pushing your chair, we come out into
that grand orchestra of life.
I can hear gratitude somewhere inside me.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023
