B E B E R E

Much further away from my window, the morning clouds are a flower born of a train. A wristwatch becomes a crayfish and an old man's coat gives way to a storm of white ants.

Much further away from my window, cotton puffs were playing at being a garden waiting for April.

Then, into my eyes floods that infinite light, and that's when I need a walking stick, a dog, a hand, faith.

And as you pass by me, touching the chill with your soft silence, blindly I sentence you to give names to all that I now do not know.

Much further away from my window, the morning clouds are a flower born of a train. A wristwatch becomes a crayfish and an old man's coat gives way to a storm of white ants.

Much further away from my window, cotton puffs were playing at being a garden waiting for April.

Much further away from my window, my hope was playing at being a flower in a garden waiting for April.