maybe it is the time of year
the quiet solitude and gesture
the in between moments of uprise and decline
the sense of loss and belonging
the fragrance of one's youth sill lingers
deep into the night
and shadows disappear
or that the sun bathes the soul
in silent repose and giving
in a gentle refrain called tomorrow
as gracious as it becomes
a place to be remembered
long after the stillness of things
carries us over into slow awakenings
touching each other
seems to be the only meaning left to us
everything else reliquinshes and gives in
to the despair of separation
the quiet solitude and gesture
the in between moments of uprise and decline
the sense of loss and belonging
the fragrance of one's youth sill lingers
deep into the night
and shadows disappear
or that the sun bathes the soul
in silent repose and giving
in a gentle refrain called tomorrow
as gracious as it becomes
a place to be remembered
long after the stillness of things
carries us over into slow awakenings
touching each other
seems to be the only meaning left to us
everything else reliquinshes and gives in
to the despair of separation
