Looking...

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I pull aside the morning curtain.

My childhood face floats by,

stares back and drifts,

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lost without a beating heart.

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Watch that little soul pour down the cliff,

a waterfall spilling out to cure the drought.

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Her center gone, mislead

by those whose words deceived,

she learned to weave an ornate tale,

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then settled like dust

in the evening shadows,

clutching a spray of conclusions

until

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the noon day sun,

spun by time,

comes into sight

to give me strength,

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makes it possible

to stand in ruby slippers,

to own the place my feet will tread,

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be friends again with perception,

and wave good-bye to things that pass.

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