Slumber
We are as time flies,
leaking out, creating new
muscle from old sinews.
Walk in slumber, talk divine,
leave decisions to another.
A man on the kerb murmurs
he wants to be left alone.
One door slams closed
where another one opened.
We gather olive-moss shoes
under our feet, stasis
shaping the glued skies,
a web for the birds
serenaded by the gods.
We watch daffodils open;
a split-second moment,
golden horns spilling.
We don’t want to miss it,
this little ode to spring,
slow in its approach,
buttoned-up, hat on.
We get nostalgic here
in the waiting room,
where nothing can begin.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, February 18, 2021
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