there are certain mornings where poetry is unnecessary
the sunlight and a thousand mixed perfumes are enough
stood by the river as swans write their eternal memoirs in repetition
where an early morning ritual forgets itself in novelty
where shadows move beneath the mirror ageless reflections swim in
i run my hand through waist high grass and shrink
back through sensation's template to an earlier place
where i ran blindly through these dreams and knew immortality
i could fly back then and i talked to angels
in nightingale voice, alighintg through each moment's gate
into states my newly awake soul knew as deja vu
samsara turned ox-bow lake not quite reaching round
to swallow it's own tale in me was found
in this ethereal dawn light, winged ephemera alight
and i stare into the sun and am blinded by my own sight

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