There is a
moment
between wakefulness
and dream
when it is
possible to know
everything,
when eternity
riffles its
pages,
disclosing
in a blur
every wondrous
fact,
every right
choice,
every yearning
human heart.
Then the moment
passes,
the world
having inched along
its orbit.
But certain remnants
travel with
us, later on
re-seen in
a dream or felt
as intuition,
transfigured
into ice or
voices heard
as air in
the plumbing,
or recast
as memories
so fragmentary,
so slight
and vaporous
they are blown away
by an unexpected
gust of worry
or the mere
sight of a bird
on a bare
branch in winter,
still as stone
and strangely familiar.
