The sun cast patterns of desire,
As I sat writing in the garden.
An inner calm spread through me,
Inching its way through every cell.
My thoughts distinct.
My writing firm.
It’s a November morning,
A chill is in the air;
But the sun is out,
Nice and bright.
I warm my feet,
And freeze my hands.
As I write these words,
The sun casts a pattern of desire,
On this hand that writes.