Day whispered

Day whispered, hesitant, innocent and barely fleshed,

as if reminding itself of yesterday and what had been,

and yet as if wondering of tomorrow and what might be,

sighing in that way of shadowed dawn, creeping, slipping,

shouldering at curtain edges, making its way into now,

blowing bright kisses into the darkness, like fine, shining

edges of hope; as if belief were enough to bring it into

being, and to mould it in the shape of all that the moments

might bring, and all that the past still held, and all 

of which the future might dream; the dust shivered,

like clouds of invisible stars, dropping lightly on my

eyelids, calling me to become yet again, singing me to

be born again into another wandering of hours and 

minutes, until all would be collected, gathered into the

arms of night  to be held safe until day whispered.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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