It’s late April
spring is in full swing
bursting with life
the tree lifts its arms,
waves across the field,
its leaves full of light
flutter in perfect rhythm
with the wind.

The train is leaving the station
the years gathering toward my finish line.
Each season a child frantically
waving at his grandpa
as if to whimper
this might be the last time.

The beauty of sleeping in later at the weekend is that you can dream of people and things you don't normally have enough time to dream of.
for instance,
processions of pictures you thought that you'd like
that cavalcade of carnality
a fanfare of friendships appearing only at night
and
of course, you wake up refreshed
knowing that you didn't disturb the universe
you only disturbed yourself.