Terri Simon

Knobby rock sitting on a hand rail —
gray tree toad, eyes closed in the sun —
I learn mornings.

Bone thin young man, awkward in movement,
stands in the window, one leg bent, stretching,
a great blue heron in the sunlight.
I learn grace.

Dog panting in the grass,
tells me to breathe.
I lay back in the chair,
raise my shirt to let the light
touch the center of my body.
I learn to melt.