We have blinked
and in the dusk behind our eyes
we have glimpsed the future
in the most untouched form;
before reality has materialized
and chipped away imperfections
to let you know
that life is not a dream.
There we met, in the early morning;
our voices soft and warm
while the shaky hands of the wind
played piano on the panes.
There was no touch of corporeality
—but the feeling of timelessness was
not spiritual or grand.
It was soft, the texture of a
deep dream.
Together we sat in the outskirts
of tragedy;
No, not the outskirts—
We lay in another world
where nothing ever happens
except a freedom of mind
and the blessing of a hand in another hand.
We are old here,
We have lived our lives and now
we sit in a knowing silence.
We are so pleased with our elderly peacefulness
that we can hardly bend our lips out of
a smile to speak.
A roll of steam from a mug,
a soft word–spoken but without importance–
and we are here.