A Poem
In every crack and crevice of our waking world,
the dream
remains.
Within a hush in wind, beyond
the scope of a flashlight,
in the anticipation of a kiss, tucked within
folds of clouds,
the rattles of frozen leaves,
the dream
remains.
That silent second
before
dawn.
That moment just
before
our eyes focus on the web of branches
cast against the sky.
Just as our mind tangles itself and warps,
racing for an explanation.
This is why we never find it, why we cast the dream aside:
It must remain within a shroud,
within every crack and crevice of our waking world.