protean muse

We were children
with that one big eye of
wonder, gazing at the tiny
sparks of light in snowflakes,
as they fell everywhere.
A simple trip around town
shown with magic and awe.
A challenging day
could be revived by our
mere mutual frictions;
that gentle, deep sinking
into golden rock and red,
sun-filled sediments, as
the ashes share their charred
joy with crisp Colorado night.
There is no other heart, but
ours, there. It is still living
in that window of the
past. I still dream it in the
now, and bear the magic of
it as I smile among the
confused, the lost, and the
dismembered. As I put it all together,
there is no other place to return.

Labels: poems, the present