devotees

at the sill, I count
birds like blessings –

even the wisp of a junco
with the withered foot –

both of us recite
the words for sky

© Sarah Whiteley

a gift of morning

morning’s not a song
to be sung
but a hum
as of a thousand bees
shifting green leaves
of sweet clover
beneath a new sun
it’s the quiet vibrations
of breathing
of keeping time
keeping time
keeping rhythm
and slow rhyme
with the waves
as they dust
the dreams
from the shore
it’s the soft celebration
of having the gift
of awaking
to see
to be
to breathe
with the winds
once more

© Sarah Whiteley