Standing still and green,
the grass is more water
than land. The sky
is gray, dawn long past,
but again, it’s hard
to quantify. I think
I may have a stone
at my core, just one
of those that studs
the lawn, that fallen
leaves adhere to, dense
and cool, and hence
the sense of weight,
and how I wake
on these days,
Oregon mornings,
to wistful rain,
and a sense of longing–
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Speechless.
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You are on such a roll right now I’m in awe and breathless.
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wistful rain or all the stone between wist and rain or indeterminate circumference — (actually you can tell me to stop, and I’d stop; I’m an obedient Westie)
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I kind of like indeterminate circumference, actually, so do please continue š
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