when you slow down,
you realize just how much movement
there truly is all around us:
Whitman’s creek,
your grandfather in the cardinals,
the mama raccoon,
the roly polies,
the wind,
our breathing,
yet somehow everything feels so still

later, the sun
a bright orange orb
sinking into the horizon
beams through the painted, full clouds:
i look over, & your eyes read my poetry

there’s nothing here but love