Poetry in a Messy Room

Conquest of time is never easy. We are trapped by who we are, often lingering before the bell rings.

Today I am sick, a springtime cold. In bed I read Merton's poems and remember that I too once dreamed in poetic sequences. The moonlight shining like the sun during lauds on the day my friend James Hamilton was buried.

Some trips linger longer than others. Joy or sorrow limiting the range. Of course, we always dress well. Our signature at events of significance. Sometimes an umbrella is needed, or a helpful hand.

When sleep returns our visions replay the scences, sequenced between night and day. I will...I wi l l..... i