The central dream

Love, morning, stars
blue now in the 
continuing lighting
of the heavens.

--J. Ceravolo.

The angels to your side, recording life with a blunt pencil. You stand on the steps, midway, as always, and give thanks; the warmth and light on your back, this old and ancient light falling, as it always has, before the mountains before the pollen.

Where you recall, this central dream of yours, just as it opens into daylight.  

The curling soft yellow petals by the roadside all small questions. Each tree grows at its own angle to the earth. Walk under their generous shade. The soft grass has nothing to say. You feel the intense stare of two crows on your back; they relax and retreat when you bow your head, recognizing one of their own. 

You could count the words you speak in a day. Less real than the words spoken in dreams. The black sun flows through your veins, tilting your head, shaping your gait. You wait with it, as time turns in broken circles. With old eyes you look at how fresh everything looks. If you could name this song you'd be somewhere else. Distances hold the memory of love, and of love lost.  

Love, morning, stars
blue now.