I see it inside a frame,

picture perfect,

fine ripples occasionally stir

a plate glass lake, placid swans

linger among the reedy edges,

a squirrel flitting past the pine

needle carcasses, cushioned sleep

for the children who lie, prone,

snubbing the sinking sun,

cheeks to crossed palms,

top of the hand pillow dreaming

atop the soft detritus, a forest mezzanine

among the sussuration of chirp and buzz.

A cloudless sky of indigo dusk

tinges the mountains to the north

hibiscus, glory of an ebbing daylight.

A blanketed trust in quietude,

sweeps my eyes closed to smell

the thick, verdant branches towering

above a summer evening, the

fullness of dawn’s sleepy arising,

like a promise sealed.