We are characters in another person's dream
Where love is not a right
but a choice, at best.
Chance, if lucky.
So when the pockets of light flash past
All the tree counting you do
The joy of the smell of wet grass.
Your palm open to the wind.
The sailing wind of the moment and how it
loses and wins our hearts with every sad and
Praise from the wandering angel.
This wet grass was someone else's dream.
And, still, we gut it out.