Dispatch #33
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Many blessings—
Joseph
Prayer Beads
A dream
disintegrates
into a room—
my body
made of
light.
*
I don’t notice
until I’m surrounded,
my senses seized
by the season.
Leaf-tides
sidewind
asphalt;
color clots
sewer grates.
*
The flare
and the fire
bright before
dying—
November’s
quick
turn
inward
turns
the mind
inside-out.
*
Freezing air
cuts through
closed windows,
encapsulating pain.
The poem glows
unwritten
in the center of
the room.
*
An inner-silence
blots out nostalgia.
What was left
unspent
in autumn
withers
under ice.
Now the new life;
the holy order
of dawn breaking.
Beautiful