Morning

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.