The end of March

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.