If I sit quietly enough, I swear I can still hear the wind chimes.

I swear I can feel the breeze.

I remember that glint of gold in the horizon.

I bite a fingernail, recalling last night.

The Dream

The emptiness is back, now.

The partial wholeness that takes your place every time you slip between my fingers.

There is, undoubtedly, no substitute.

The dog cries, scratching at the door.

So, I let him out into the whistling wind and the skies of robin’s egg blue.

A memory stirs.

Of lonely, golden mornings,

Where the last of the autumn leaves cling so desperately to their fortress.

And, I, a small child, bundled against the cold,

Biting a fingernail and dreaming of something more.