Mourning Before Dawn

fear has a habit of
waking the sleeping dog
who lays whimpering
with legs engaged in motion

the sand of yesterday's
beach walk
lingers in your eyes and ears
like a salt

this is what we have come to
taking turns pacing
the soil in this Eden

of our own creation
like foolish miniature gods
going through the motions,
manufacturing a destiny

written in stone
before we were ever plucked
out of the cosmos
and our possiblity existed

in an unreleased egg.

I forgot to think what it
means to jump the track
and drive through an open field
still asleep, undisturbed

clearing throat
unable to consider anything
but the inevitability of spring.

ksaint