A great black quiet above lay
sleeping. An engine without steam
or heat. A mouth lost of words.
An open sky. Stars shining their jewels;
eyes without faces pasted in a forever place.
A steady hand. Fingers pointed with
wishes fall prey to tomorrow; the
hope of change knows only pain.
Time folds over, presenting a new face.
A breath never yet breathed. The turning
of the world under different clouds; no
two gusts of wind speak the same path.
Green becomes an aroma. Blue horizons
stretch even above storms.
Morning pushes in.
Roger Singer 