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Poem

Curious cobblestones captured 
By the painters languid brush.

Crisp and clean and clearly caught
With lines that frame the images 
Of what we wish to see.

What we wish to see.

What we really see, is what we wish to see.

The long day payment for the rare scene.
The late summer, early morning warmth, 
Brought to heather in a false disguise.

Winter close feigns feelings free of frost. 
Yet mornings cape to follow, cloaks the lost.
And here stand I in wonder once again
To breathe the mist, digest the list
Of numbered and countless wonders.

Playing a pawn in this rare game.
Lying low, keeping tame.
All music rising to a silent breast
Spoken not to dare disturb the rest.

And this be the subtle lesson.
The shared remark of life.
The substance traded for the ethereal.
Time caught beneath 
The crush of experience wheel.

And the bold thought so rarely caught
Floats and races endlessly afore
And we behind pace the moments of the longer day.
Our payment for the rare scene.

Sometimes the day more clearly is defined.
Spread before us like a Persian carpet.
Unfurled ruby red for royalty,
Each step preordained.
The pattern of each moment yet unstained.

These are the walking days.
The waking ways of strolling thoughts

Tumbled slowly outward as
A level carpet smooth unrolled.
Nary a fold nor wrinkled brow.
Unconcerned somehow.

A small relaxing voice that soothes,
Recounting whispers of a larger theme.
A quiet dream

Just a piece of the peaceful day
Footsteps of time 

Along the narrow way.

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