Poetry

A smudge of gold,
a cloud of cream,
A living, breathing, waking dream.
Not hurried by the ticking clock,
Or startled by the doorbell's knock.
He moves in rhythms all his own,
The gentlest soul the world has known.

He wanders where the clover grows,
With sunlight dancing on his nose.
A lazy sway, a soulful gaze,
Lost in a golden, summer haze.

While others race to catch the ball,
He pauses for the leaf-fall's call,
Finding joy in a sudden breeze,
Or a quiet nap beneath the trees.

No frantic pace, no hurried stride,
Just a heart open, yawning wide.
A master of the art of still,
Who lingers long upon the hill.

Oh, smudge of gold, oh, cream-colored light,
You make the rushing world feel right.
For in your slow and steady art,
You found the shortcut to the heart.