One Quick Question

What is it about

my sunbathing 

knee that draws

the damselfly − the sheen

of sun, the faceted near

flat landing; or 

my still hand, either

left, or right, above, 

praising the weather 

of wood grain

and how copper freckles are 

made by an absence 

of impatience 

and a taste for waiting, 

for mindlessness − 

as a cloud's a blinding

amassment of another

place, unseen there, 

though here atop an oak

leaf's exposed palm, 

lines life shifting now 

into space of this afternoon's 

slow moment − inverse 

of shade, loudness of quiet,

inundation of light, 

lightness, of framing.