Clouds powder the mountains with mist
until the sun’s slow erotic warming
dries the sky, dissipating droplets
into the blue.
Our gaze strays over gold grasses
that rustle like silk covering earth’s sweet curves.
We sigh in morning’s lazy swing
while the melancholy river
whispers its currents through pale logs
where turtles bask off evening’s cool flow
beneath the sun’s ardent spray.
A rosy finch flings her voice scattering it
through the branches of a proud ponderosa,
and we look up at the sky
rimmed by mountains
convinced that life is good.
Brenda Warren 2012
Visit The Sunday Whirl.