Particled lines of light

glance through the kitchen window;

drone of radio,

and dishwasher’s chant;

unsettled kettle, so near to boil;

the knife in my hand

that snicks through kale,

ribboning leaves —

Each entwines and elevates

the sense of expectation —

They gather on the side steps,

forty-five minutes late or

two seasons early,

bearing creation and song…

Fluid time slides around me,

eddying forward and back,

and I stand motionless,

sharply aware of the slim line

separating premonition

from memory.

— C.Birde