118/365

this one needs to be quiet:
like a bowl of peaches
in the moonlight,
the record groove before
it hits the song,
the whir of a fan
and the darkness
as the light clicks off,
like invited solitude
and river bends that
turn wide and deep,
a slow moving cloud,
a shadow on the move,
a bud pre-bloom,
a fire falling into embers,
the tress left to linger,
a poem gaining traction.

this one needs to be quiet:
the brain is tender and agitated
swimming in its own juices,
rattled again and aching.