but who has time for solitude these days
Yet I awoke to a chorus of bird calls,
and the breeze still blows the tips of the trees,
and these sick trees, dying, are still producing leaves.
So I suppose I can breathe in
the life-giving presence
of the dappled shadows on the forest floor
and the sudden sun illuminating
those leaves overhead;
watch the bug float by,
and the white flowers explode from the lush foliage;
and feel my edges dissolve.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2018