Wait. Here. Each and every moment is a
threshold to the next. Release the give-guilt-
purge cycle. Differently loved. Who gives a
crap about tomorrow; art isn't built

in an instant. Feel the muse, let her in.
From your vantage point, you witness to the birds'
chatter, holy speaks in squawks; it's a win
for the soul, nature provides all the words

you need to hear. Let her be, and flow, float,
along the wind. Stop and listen, savor
the sounds of the forest calling you, notes,
melodies, sweet, multitudes of flavors

in your solitude. Don't try to sort them
out. Save some remnants. She will be here when.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


Popular posts from this blog

Letter to my future self

Still the Birds Sing