Pages of books recover
their voices,
a return from
elsewhere.
Daylight reaches in
fueling the brilliant
vase.
Flower prints on walls
suddenly beckon
as pathways,
portals to walk
through and into
world.
Friend, I made the journey
in and out of chance
and fate
believing in neither
in both.
There aren't words for it,
only poems that swim
or fly in their
complicated way
saying beyond
the saying.
My body is no longer
mine,
only a lend for
whatever time,
only a rack for clothes
worn briefly and
traded in
for the haberdashery
of good-bye.
World travels in its
warps of time
sometimes blue
sometimes in pallor
as we stumble, fall
rise.
