One window yields hard frost to spring in time,
like wells ring water in mirrors of hope
and warming rain breaks through a wintry clime,
passing remorse over a sunny slope.
The open glass bids peace to drift from skies,
settling dawn to melt my frozen sighs.
My years have passed in a melange of sighs.
I do not count the days nor keep the time,
but dream instead against the changing skies,
and set the world into a frame of hope,
not mindful of the way events can slope,
casting dreamers into a colder clime.
When heedless thoughts conjure a sun swept clime,
measuring faith against fractions of sighs,
my dreams of spring carpet a rocky slope,
ascending unaware of passing time,
focusing only on the future’s hope,
as if petals portended brighter skies.
Dreamers forgo the world for signs in skies,
challenging stars to yield a different clime
in constellations that bridge wish to hope,
as if the night might blanket all one’s sighs
like mother rocks her child through dark time
to quell the darkest soul from travail’s slope.
Like Yeats on seeing swans wing past Coole’s slope,
I know years arcing in avian skies,
and measure wing beats to the press of time,
advancing unperturbed by age’s clime,
whooshing the wind away in careworn sighs,
turning my face upward in faceless hope.
I counter pain thus through prisms of hope,
sliding past age on my life’s slipping slope
to recall trials with the barest sighs,
and pull my dreams down from the darkling skies,
searching the stars for comfort’s warmer clime,
passing in years of optimistic time.
Dreams sleep safely under hopeful skies,
petals open dispelling changing clime
in starry nights alighting paths of time.
- Add a