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Small pleasures (landays)

There comes a time when the well rings dry
When the mothers and fathers live in empty houses

When the day turns an unseen color
When the letters we send shred themselves to confetti

There comes a day when the trees grow tired
A time when my bones walk slower than my memory

When the signs don’t know how to read me
When the comfort I get comes from counting surely down

There comes an hour when we just stop short
When the world streams by in all its hot cacophony

There comes a moment when all is well
The pebbles are smooth, the babies are rolling fatly

When the roar of the unthought, undone
Lets through ribbons of song from the basements and attics
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