by C. L. Killgore
Sleeping dogs lie
in intermittent shafts of golden light
as narrow blades of unkempt grass
beneath the gentle rustle of ancient trees.
Time moves differently,
on summer days where ice melts
and beads of condensation
down a tall glass of strong, sweet tea,
and a faded blue sky,
stretches beyond the safe,
the comfortable places we know.