A Procession Of Days

To the child, each hour is a universe upon
which the long crawl of days has not yet
imposed a sense of transience.

Each moment a long now
Each pebble a tiny planet
The shapes of clouds wonders
that course the infinity of sky

Each day adds a pearl
to the string upon which
impressions simmer into a
kind of lingering fragrance,
or low tones of a deep song

Sing, and turn to the wind
Each line a cacophony of voices
Each thought a bone and a step]

It does not matter what the king
will say to one singular, and sovereign
I have walked among stones sculpted
by the river of time, and through cities
in the land of dreams

All my life I have inhaled the breath of
ancient men, now, my own breath follows
the path of lions and the pavement of desire

—W.L. Winter

Happy Sunday.

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