~a squirrel on the mailbox~
~attempting to argue me out of breakfast~
~a church bell sends it flying into a tree~
~it chitters at children skipping down the street~
~I smile & go inside~
~it gets my breakfast after all~
~Tintinnabulum~
Sparrows nesting in the eaves flit dangerously near strangers crossing the porch. Hungry cries from the nest announce the event of birthing has come and is gone. These tiny shrill voices are nature’s call to morning as sure as the sun rises. A fat cat lays in the yard purring, pondering its next meal.
A child laughing nearby, whose tinkling voice somehow defies the tar rubber roar of traffic, is a sweet reminder of Sunday, late spring and bare feet, wiggly toes and dandelions, knows well to celebrate, embrace and engage the day. A deep rumbling in the earth precedes a low flying train.
A man with love in his heart makes a low humming sound, deep, deeper in his being than that of conscious awareness. His spirit becomes an instrument, a finely tuned harp, upon which wind fingers play and the voice of his lover. A smile visits his lips. True beauty is borne, sweet silence on a Sunday morn.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~attempting to argue me out of breakfast~
~a church bell sends it flying into a tree~
~it chitters at children skipping down the street~
~I smile & go inside~
~it gets my breakfast after all~
~Tintinnabulum~
Sparrows nesting in the eaves flit dangerously near strangers crossing the porch. Hungry cries from the nest announce the event of birthing has come and is gone. These tiny shrill voices are nature’s call to morning as sure as the sun rises. A fat cat lays in the yard purring, pondering its next meal.
A child laughing nearby, whose tinkling voice somehow defies the tar rubber roar of traffic, is a sweet reminder of Sunday, late spring and bare feet, wiggly toes and dandelions, knows well to celebrate, embrace and engage the day. A deep rumbling in the earth precedes a low flying train.
A man with love in his heart makes a low humming sound, deep, deeper in his being than that of conscious awareness. His spirit becomes an instrument, a finely tuned harp, upon which wind fingers play and the voice of his lover. A smile visits his lips. True beauty is borne, sweet silence on a Sunday morn.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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