Don't you just
love days
that flower
full of song
and lack regret?
The ones where
you awaken,
as if
still dreaming,
inexplicably
delighted?
You stay
still,
hold your
breath,
listen
hard before
you ease
like Sol into
the shining sky.
No words
can portray
days like these,
none adequately
explain
the gift
of them,
a present you
construe
ephemeral.
Wonder
how to
transform
into something
permanent.
Know
the folly of
trying to
objectify
or water
flowers unreal;
the wilting
of dreams
other
than lovely.
