Desert light streaks nascent

on the snows of archival white

young beams that cannot die

lest the sun lingers any longer –

 

In the mindfulness of time

we’ve received the gift of life,

a cognizance rife with an awareness, a

clarity primed, a reality un-fettered

by the misfires of memory;

alas, the gift does not rely

on perception alone; there is no time

for such things as reminiscence

 

So I travel on my way

blissfully aware that I am

found in discovery of my own likeness,

the secondhand tick of being human

 

where the road I travel longs for the

finality of impermanence, like the

slow and lengthy misconception

that strikes the evidence as truth

 

when the god spark within me speaks

of love to the light of day

and your hands, above the chorus of dawn,

lay gently on my brow of hope.

 

 

 

© K. James Ribble