At the brink of dawn someone shuffles
down the hall, around notions passed,
and across the gracious doormat to rub clean
moist thoughts which ambitiously scabbed to
weary soles deep in the night.
Steps like a slow motion dance beckon the river to return;
hopefully this time, all shall remain inside flowing neat and tidy,
leaving no sensation of pins and needles,
no stains in sight or tattletale recollections
peering grossly through smudged sky-lights.
Within the formless wonder,
before light bares all
stale dreams are gently dismissed or softly drowned.
It is the alluring breath of damp horizon
that recalls who was the star in the night,
and who made a wish that might
never have come true; a sparkling promise in disguise.
Nothing is being written these days.
For more is being done in a moment
than could be recounted; a fortunate circumstance.
Thus, scarce is time in which to recount
stories concerning some juicy morsel of life.
But no more does one feel sad about what used to be;
Things have happened!
And the now
is utterly delicious,
and oh so forgivably sweet.
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