Sunday, April 1, 2018

ALL IN ITS OWN GOOD TIME/ SUNDAY WORDLE #345 -- Poets United



ALL IN ITS OWN GOOD TIME

I rise from the pit
Pry your fingers lose
From my throat
You release me

We sit in the tree tops
Whistle to ourselves
Hum a happy tune
From long ago

Gather the eggs in the yard
Still warm
We hold them close
Touch their creamy shells

We hold them to our ears
Listen for their magic 
Sounds of the universe
Stars collide

Muffled sounds come to us
Words we cannot understand
Feet of clay
Skin of dust
All in its own good time
Don’t push

April 1, 2018



1 comment:

Sherry Blue Sky said...

I love the gathering of the creamy eggs....memories of long-gone Easters.

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