Dawn is the Distance
from year to year.
It is the remembered kiss
of a girl walking home,
scented warm
beneath her clothes,
wise to the ways
of winter.
Dawn is a long train
that keeps me waiting
in worn out shoes,
a ghost held fast
by wisps of smoke.
It is the distance
between this heart
and every other �
infinite, but not quite real.
I�ve seen it with my eyes:
when fields and trees
commend the sky,
a world of light is born.
February 11, 2006
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