stretch the spirit-head high

i wake each morning

to a sun-filled kitchen,

familiar cup of coffee;


i feel new.


but by night-fall i am

in mourning for

the old.


i know, this too shall pass;

which is its own


kind of sadness.


i slowly ease in and dig my

shell into this fresh sand:


letting the tiny grains

patiently move me along —


millions of time-wise

crystalline hands.


i keep one eye on the tide,

stretch the spirit-head high


to the deep-wide horizon.



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