The future is rising like a wave,

unfurling like an idea
everyone thought was slow
but isn’t anymore.
No one knows if the shadow
will stick to the sundial,
or if the cistern’s green depth
equals the condition of our
collective disbelief.
The flower on the sill
swivels its dyed head to follow
a plane of moving light.
Once there was a way to live
that wasn’t always a weighing
against different forms of despair.

Leave a Reply