Writing my story in the hours
of the day like sentences on the page
of the week in the chapter of
the month of the lesson of
the year in the time of
my age in the book of
my life on the stage
in your eyes.
All the marks I make
and hands I hold
and pictures I take
are the letters I leave in the wake
drifting towards the sea of infinity
only to evaporate.
then particles condense
straight out of the air
where moments ago
only nothing was there;
a ripple forms in the fabric of time
and a drop of precipitate makes water to wine.
The currents they flow though know
not whether they go and standing
on a bridge between my mind's eye
I watch the river of my life pass by.
A dream you would say is all it could be,
but what you call dream is reality to me.