Upon my back upon a lawn I lay
beneath a conifer in dappled sun
at 3 p.m. one perfect Saturday,
entranced. The August month had just begun,
embroidered with the shape of solitude
and shot with colors leonine and bold.
My errand blossomed to event; my mood
included quiet, welcoming the gold.
The squirrels chittered claims above my head.
The long and lacy needles of the tree
seemed made of silicon, segmented green
like broom beside a city creek. A thread
contentment whispered like a melody
of dream in me: alone, alive, serene.