Fragile as ancient glass unbroke, too exquisite to recall, they rise. In this no-place between sleep and waking there is no choosing. I press my fingertips to the bone of my breast, bone to bone, to feel time pass.
These times, long time, are built on fleeting moments that pierce me. Before the brushing of teeth and making of tea I am with you on the threshold still, called back, shored against, your eyes intense and blue.
Shards
Filed under poetic prose and prose poems
I read this just as I’m about to enter that place “between sleep and waking”, that “no-place” that is so essential to life, as the poetry of words are: yours, once again, so quiet and telling, soothing and cutting, so beautiful. XO
Thank you very much, Diane 🙂 x