once, it was
a branch, extending
its hand in a truce
after a long winter
or that Saturday on Dublin
confronted by the broad strokes
and pixelated charm of
a chalk sun welcoming spring
and not forgetting
that afternoon watching the cat
floating on his back
in a puddle of sunlight
hours in the making
or as brief as a sigh
wild and unrehearsed
or measured and calm as a nurse
you never know
when it will come
how long it will last
or what shape it will take
how amazing
it is though
when thought becomes expression
when silence becomes something sound.
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