We weave in and out of days.
A mood arises, untraceable.
Did it come from the furrow of blankets,
seeping into you, and I am the mirror?
Or did I find it in my hands,
hands digging in my dank darkness?
Did I pull it out, offering it as a
tainted gift?
The cloudy morning's opening strains
are our life's music, not set to logic.
The melody finds us in unknown territory,
lifts our eyes (in recognition),
and sings us home.
