What is it about

sky’s darkening hue

in early evening

in summer

 

that evinces a oneness

both staggering

and healing?

Whenever I return home

 

I feel deeply loved.

Meanwhile outside

I stand in holy contentment

by a gate smothered in Bougainvillea.

 

Saunter slowly

like cool fingering breeze

wait for lone hawk

to rattle up from the ground.

 

Whatever else fills my days—

music, fashioning verse

wherever else I live—

with evanescence longings

 

I anchor myself deeply

in this ineffable, intimate place

this earth,

which itself is breathing.

 

Tonight, I feel a hum of delight

circling through me

shattering limiting languishes.

Time seems to lengthen.

 

A few steps from my door

a gaggle of magpies

black and white and saucy

as a masquerade party

 

have taken over the yard.

And the moon’s thin white smile

sends a passionate coax

to step out again and again.

 

 

Marianne Lyon

 

Marianne has been a music teacher for 43 years. After teaching in Hong Kong, she returned to the Napa Valley and has been published in various literary magazines and reviews including Ravens Perch, TWJM Magazine, Earth Daughters and Indiana Voice Journal. She was nominated for the Pushcart prize in 2017. She is a member of the California Writers Club and an Adjunct Professor at Touro University in California.

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