Before dawn, a tempest:
the day deciding itself.
Wild with wondering, trees
toss their heads; clouds
churn the brightening sky.
Deer linger in night places;
the small throats of wrens
swell with stifled song.
Waiting.
At sunrise, the wind abates;
trees compose their branches.
Deer emerge;
wrens warble.
The day arranges
its capricious skirts,
offers its capacious lap,
bids you sit.
You have 24 hours, it says.
Tell me a story.
Make it a good one.
Meditatio Ephemera 
I echo Jazz’s thoughtful and smart reflection on your wonderful blog, Rafiki. And I learned two new words today. Which makes it an even better day than it was before I read this poem
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Word power! Thanks, Rafiki.
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Delightful! And also a challenge … not just any story suffices, what story do I let spill from within into this day? LOVE your depiction of trees composing their branches as day arranges its capricious skirts, offers its capacious lap.
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Thanks, Jazz! I’m especially glad you like capricious/capacious. I wasn’t sure whether that’s fun or just a tongue-twister. 🙂
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The storm, the calm, the story
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