Dare we count
the minutes separating real arcs of joy
as they happen
or do we need something
tangible – a totem? –
to convey the memory of light
before we give way to night?

The subtle shadows
didn’t register
as he glanced beyond
small shoes, loping gaits,
and purple hat ladies,
almost seeing
the miracle of flight
but for an extended blink.

I dreamt I had a cello
between my knees,
a low thrumming
beneath my fingers,
rolling through my spine.

The song was of trembling touch
on a dark-winged night.
I played by waning moon,
words slipping
from a soft place inside.