Isaiah 30:15

You just are like the pink gladiolas that grow

along the front of my trailer

stunningly simple, yet complex,

silent

like the oak and gum and maple that branch their arms

from one to the next

foresting my view of each sunrise

silent, stately, there.

You just are fullness we miss in our ragged rush to proceed

to the next project, efficient, while the moon rises and sets

rises and sets.

Last night’s moonscape dazzled Monet’s Garden,

it hung white and round against navy velvet—

warm when I touched it, gauzy strands of silver

spanned the scape like bands to hold the scene to the board.

There it was

silent, silver, startling

unveiled for the first look when I stepped out of the garage.