Green grass of serenity.
The starling's nest
is full with worry contrary
to the advice of pennant
blowing.

Comfortable sun soaks
this arthritic marrow
and a cleavage of trees
looks on.

For now,
I am the cotton wind
folding smoothly.
A cannabis hammock
snoring against the shutters.

The brick house in
its selfishness knows
there is an airstream
of opportunity.
I shall begin to write
without my mother's hands.

Sara Fielder © June 2018