There are too many whispers
too many prayers
to fit in a July morning.
Light flows through
watermelon quarters
onto an oak table.
Purple grapes strut
their richness
like wanton saints.
Orioles flood the air
till we are song-dizzy while
duck calls tease our ears.
And the air, the air touches us
with the imagined silk
of butterfly wings.
Joy walks under our skin
till we become
smiles with feet.
