Turning toward the light which ripples
through brittle windows, in that way
of becoming, barely born as the sun
rides the waves of dawn, and morning,
stretches, slight of smile, with crooked
fingers, teasing at the edges of day, and
curtained moments, beckoning forward
my freshly drawn soul as it emerges,
wet-winged from the cocoon of sleep.

Dreams linger, huddled into pressed
pillow, as if they had dug deep, and sure
into that place of mind, where eternity
held court through darkened hours,
and the dead lived and laughed once
more, holding my hands, as if they had
never left and would never leave again;
promising in those shadowed halls with
ash-strewn hearths, what was impossible.

Shaking loose from tangled threads which
hold, lightly, to the re-awakened mind,
born again, in this new place and now,
so does the pull to life remember fresh,
eternal purpose, beyond the caverns of
the soulful night, called to weave again,
with fresh-dyed hanks of brightened yarn,
dried upon the branches of yesterday,
the blanket of what will be called today.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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