This morning delivers reckless fog
and the sun hasn't cleared the bank.
Breezes up the hillside ooze tasty aromas -
honeysuckle, blueberry and blackberry.

My soul jogs for serenity.
This is the view, the tangible �
mist, warmth and sweet-splattered cleanliness,
bird's song, bee's buzzing, background noises,
static from the swish of traffic halts
like the skipped heartbeat that races at the sight
of metal-choked tin and the white picket fence of home.

People watching see the burdens of generous hips,
voluptuous thighs, and a jiggling stomach dance the Rumba,
shaking motions the whole body feels under strain.

But I prance past their automobiles, plump chested,
preened arms hump, shoulders take off,
hap-two-three-four, soar, swoop, and fly past them.

I'm a bird escaping caged ribs, bunched cars
bumper-to-bumper, headlight beams, stuck here,
stuck there, until trapped heads are no longer seen.

Serenity becomes this body learning
to love the world, looking out with all
of its small beings, jogging to where all sound
and shape shimmy to the blur.



�2005 by Sarah Wilson