. . . sun peeking round cotton-puff clouds.
I wander meadows flush with buttercups
trees rustling in breeze.
Leaves gleam myriad shades of green.
Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed
hands prayer-folded to chest
soothed by buttercups,
undulating tall grasses.
Serenity . . .
I grudgingly answer call.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday and the word to be used within the body of our exactly 44 word poem (sans title) is flush.
In this Covid-19 era, I find myself doing yoga and meditating every day. This morning the telephone rudely interrupted me – motivating this post. Stay safe everyone!
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo from Pixabay.com