Will in dreams the day be met,
one from the other:
a start, or the waft of fresh and tangy frustration, or the chilly drive home.
A hillside, baked and unnoticed.
Dark timber. A thin layer of dust.
A sprinkler raining sunshine on glistening blades of green.
Each day to the next.
Memories like the most savory stew.
Not hidden so much as infused, or perhaps imbued,
with the flavors of so many other ingredients.
Closed eyes, a pink afternoon, an overflowing spoonful in my grip.
Each day is different from the next.
Each day adds its own flavor, its own ingredients.
If I stand, if I let dead grass sway yellow against my leg,
if I look up and wander into bigger meadows,
the expanse will harden me. Sensations are the key.
A blessing of seconds like trees, like an immoderate forest,
like the purple sweep of the world at the close of the day,
so impermanent and muted as it is.
Featured: Meadow Gateway by yours truly