My feet crush the dry little stars,
finding satisfaction in the melancholic
melody of their crunch & crackle.
Time fades with their scent’s threads:
saintly subtle, sweet — a reminder that Sunday
is nothing but brittle, faded recollections
of the breath of leaves, rivulets of wind,
a waiting woman, sleeping cats,
prayers in pauses, a song in the distance.
Three men laugh as they mend
a poor, broken pipe — the punchline
was swallowed by the quietness.
The world disappears in the afternoon:
I find solace in stillness
of stones. A silent smile.