The sun leaps
into responsibility

freshly pressed and dripping
another delectable day

into me.
Though sleep knows

and has always known—
I am still not ready.

Under a spell
of honeyed flowers,

I have dissolved
into the dew of night,

limbs disguised
under a river of silk,

stitched together
with the same spider

that spun the night
I spun myself in.

I know better than
to stay in this cocoon,

untwined enough
to slip one foot

into the hyacinth breeze
and unthread a hundred dreams

from heavy eyes.
What keeps me occupied is

to finish the day that has
yet begun,

to bat the unease out of
creased pillows

and shake the fears too,
so all dust surrenders

to the peace
between everything.

I let my shadows dance
on porcelain walls

and into
the infinite window,

where the oldest light
that silently lights

the distant meadow fields,
lights the cracks of this room

and waits—

and continues to wait
for me.

Draped in golden perspire
from branch to bough,
Autumn lingers at the rim
of morning's hazy brew.
As leaves release their hold
in orange streams,
these fears and dreams too
fall with a patient certainty,
along with what was and
what could have been,
rousing not the sky or earth
but a fire within me.