Outside of any proper season,
this cool, damp morning—
A painting, not white-washed,
rinsed in watered gray silk,
world where words are muffled–
the quiet murmur of walkers passing my porch.
Even the cars–their motors whisper Hush into the
Road, which answers with a rain wash shush
and below all these, the beat of this day’s
softened heart, the call over and over
of the mourning dove, this morning dove.
