Apples and Almonds

Across west windows, prisms dance on threads strung from sill to sill. The sun drops below pines. What is left of today is everything. And nothing at all.

Maple seeds spin in this last light. I cannot forget the breeze or the anticipation of dawn or you, you, you.

Apples and almonds for breakfast. The dark night slips away leaving a wake of light in an ever-broadening V. My hands are but points in time, but would it be alright if I used them to hold yours? There is something sacred about falling asleep, about letting go entirely, about meeting darkness together. In my dream I notice every line and bend of our fit. Yet, I cannot seems to ride the wind long enough to reach you. Well, that is just one way of saying it. Another is that we exist and are happy.

May departs.