In the rosy cradle of dawn,
I sit, the warmth of coffee cupped in my hands—
a simple pleasure,
but so rich in this stillness.
The view is wondrously fluid,
the mist rising from the hills like breath exhaled
from some ancient earth,
the hills distant, yet intimate in their embrace.
They greet the sky with a verdant smooch,
the kind of green that holds no pretense,
no hurried promises of progress.
My backyard, a tranquil haven, stretches
to woods that exhale their own language,
untouched by the spoil of builders and roadmasters.
The trees speak in whispers I only half understand—
a dialect older than the hum of suburbia,
sturdier than the concrete I walk upon.
I am here, in this pause between worlds,
the comfort of civilization behind me
and the wild, untamed reach of nature before.
This moment—the coffee warming my bones,
the woods and hills standing sentinel,
uncultured by the design of my neighborhood—
it is enough.
No need to claim it, no need to mark it—
it simply is,
and for now,
it holds me in quiet reverence.
© 2018, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
