On the road that passes from the old, dead world

unto green glades under a cloud-ridden sky,

a traveler takes in the sweet mists

and is reminded of a dream.

Breathing out, he shares what life he has

with the long, unkept grass

flowing as waves atop a stormy sea;

waves that break against the stony road

and sink back toward trees skirting the northern fringe,

whose wind-tussled leaves shiver in the gusts

of early autumn.

The ashen Sky, his guardian,

She groans from labor pangs,

withholding until the last second

the bounty thus preserved from its conception

as God might retain such gifts until some fullness of time…

if only time would ever grow full.


This, to my sister.

Is he not free who rises with the sun

and cleanses himself of the night’s dreams?

To recall an epoch when he could dash

from the shadowed room to the one in which she slept, sound.

There, the shadow not so real as she…

and crawling into bed beside her

he sleeps the night into a day.

The sound of her breathing akin to a bay tide flowing.

She, a steel door set against the deluge of tormentors

who call for the little one beside her.

She holds them at bay though she sleeps unknowing of them.

The night lengthens; he presses himself close to her and uses her as a shield…

Morning comes and he greets it

as though to say, “I have come round to you again

at the turning of the earth.”

He kisses her as she yet sleeps and returns to his own bed,

for the morning is as young and beautiful as she.