Good Jazz in the atmosphere,
Smooth strokes to the keys,
Rolling,
As if the white clouds rushing in had no sound,
but were silent like ghosts.
A calm water sits beneath the castovercast blanket,
moving but inaudible,
and my ears rang with a void they were virgin to.
Sweet pictures of long summer days floated to the earth beneath me.
Clips of the past yearnings seemed fulfilled,
all was content and hazy,
a world of kisses in the rain swept me away,
wonder,
whisper,
frost.
“Have I been here yet?”
“Have I slept into the future’s forget?”
“Have I grasped every grape I should and thrown away the raisins?”
A rush of water,
slow,
warm,
tugs me gently under,
and I the forgotten knapkin of slow wind float into slumber.
The volume of grateful assurances is whelming in my time,
that I have wandered home,
to a vague recollection of what it means to be,
and what to live without the ticking stop-clock.
For what time brings is stop,
not go,
and without it decay is lost.
I am found engulfed in what fortune I have foretold.
I am a wisp of vapors in your dream.
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