We have gotten here because
We cannot remember; if we
Remembered we would not be here
The folded field gold, the brown woods darkening. So far from where we began those softer memories, like a deeper mist moving through the trees. The open window the open mind, free of fear and full of love, it was there in all places hiding in plain sight, shy and nervous. I dreamed last before death of the sun dieing in the winter wood
Like a candle before the breathe
Of sleep blowing gently
Blurred, orange and grey.