Sitting in fold-up chairs
behind the old brick municipal center
that once was an elementary school —
where paint is chipping from windows and
a cluster of two-by-fours and plywood
leans awkwardly against the battered dumpster —
we sip coffee from styrofoam cups and
watch our lives run,
exhorting our children with shouts
through an early autumn breeze,
as if the result of the game
meant more than a Saturday morning.
The first leaves flutter to the ground
out of a cobalt sky
as we turn momentarily
away from the field
toward idle conversation.
bussokuseki 
where paint is chipping from windows and
a cluster of two-by-fours and plywood
leans awkwardly against the battered dumpster –
super lines in a beautiful poem..
groetjes, Francina
Nothing
in the world
is usual today.
This is
the first morning.
~ Izumi Shikibu
Yes, it is when we treasure the most “ordinary” moments, that our days all become extraordinary.
Namaste
How many times have we been there? Those moments of comparatively nothingness. In life’s scheme, they are too often fleeting and seem insignificant when in reality, they are everything. Thanks for the beautiful, vicarious visit.
Thank you, Eric. I so enjoy your comments from your visits. Each one is wonderful gift, adding meaning through interaction. Be well~