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Unstructured Hour

The shadow stalls upon the sundial stone,

and afternoon spills sideways,

     unmeasured,

                       unmanaged, and

                                          unowned.    

Blessed be the heavy air of midsummer,

where cicada-drone replaces hurry,

asking nothing of hands and nothing of mind.

Here, in the wide and hollow quiet,

as frantic ghosts of doing fade away.

Grass grows tall beneath our stillness,

and heat ripples horizon like a slow breath.

We are not a sum of tasks completed,

but a river that wanders without destination,

a leaf that hangs suspended in thick air,

and the sudden, startling weight of our own being.

Praise be to the sun’s unhurried arc,

and to the holy grace of standing still.

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