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Winter Morning Geometry
The pine bench seat
beside the west door of my tool shed
was frosted in December shadow,
except for a triangle sliced by the morning sun
as the wood absorbed its faint warmth.
When not bothered by humans
Mother Earth never composes herself in straight lines
only ragged, permeable fringes:
junipers across the downslope meadow,
a waterline under lakeside cliffs
or the wavering apex of migrating geese last fall.
Geometric dissections spill only from my mind,
imposed on this inescapable dance
like fences surveyed through the forest.
Our planet wobbles on,
sun sneaks around to outflank
my weathering shed
and melt the suspended diamond dust.
In a while the entire seat will dry,
ready for a morning sit-down where I sip hot coffee
with no linear thoughts on this crisp morning,
watching crowns of snow
slide from ponderosa branches
into circling cycles of fluid time.
– Bill Mawhinney
. . . . . . .
a morning sit-down
I sip hot coffee
no linear thoughts
circling cycles of fluid time.
– Roderick MacIver