Every day unfurls as it must, without my leave, I have no say. The sunrise is a promise furled, a swirl, a whirl to be undone. But how the day leaves, strong or weak, in joy or woe, we cannot know until we drink the hours, and drain the cup of time. The night a dream, we start again, the teapot filled with leaves, the sunlight warm against our hands, the teacup ready for the day. The minutes pour, they spill, they flood, they fill our lives, they drain our blood. One day we wake, the teapot smashed, the leaves unfurled, aflutter in the wind. Our feet upon the window sill, we jump and join the winging throng, a final glance at all we knew, we leave.
published in Medium
Comments