One can hear a tea kettle whistling
and the sound of wooden rockers
on a round sewn rug.
Alive with cobwebs,
the morning breeze
makes them sway.
A sewn time piece
by piece in a circle.
She rubs the counter clockwise until
the shine is proud of it's reflection.
Mint leaves plucked and brought in,
one chewed.
Currents are plump and ready, eager, bobbing.
A single inchworm moves in the delight of the moment.
© Sonja J. Phinney 1989
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