Tired Moons - We Are Always Becoming Ourselves

In a Doorway, Somewhere

Light across the leaves in spring, a timid breath shaking in the wind. There are lamps along the path that burned out long ago, and others with cracked panes that still glow. I am finding myself on bridges, in canals, at roadsides, small in the shadow of remembering. And where you are is clear: a doorway. White pours around the edges, you reach out your hand even though I'm far away. There is something that brings me to you as a samara carried on the gentlest breeze, scraping across the ground for miles until a gust lifts it to the sky and ferries it all the way to your open palm.

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