Summer Paltry

The shadow stalls upon the sundial stone,
and afternoon spills sideways, unowned.
Blessed be this midsummer air,
where cicada drone replaces hurry,
asking nothing of hands or mind.

The grass grows tall beneath our stillness;
and heat ripples like a slow breath.
We are not a sum of tasks completed,
but a river wandering without destination.
Praise be to the sun’s unhurried arc,
and the holy grace of standing still.

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