night rain has yielded
to a low cloud morning,
wild with wind swayed trees.
in the kitchen
in the quiet
of a sleeping house,
flour falls cool
between fingers to the bowl –
awakens
speaks soft of days in the sun
winter rain and red earth.
tells of open hills with skies full of stars
and all that unfurled and pulsed
from seed to plant to seed.
in fading light
we break the evening bread
and give thanks.
fresh poetry 