In the waking dream that is my life, there are conversations with misted souls. There are understandings gleaned from silent morning sunlight reshaping the work of night's frost.
In the waking dream, the crows line up across elder trees to announce the coming and going of the young eagle traveling east. The singular sparrow returns from its extended vanishing point. The cat is at the window in an instant.
In the waking dream, grief is dealt with in parceled amounts. A new knowledge of love takes shape. Impeccable bagpipes, eight, wail a rendition of Amazing Grace and I am cleansed.
In the waking dream, there is new light and new color of my own doing. There are stories to be read and a world to leave behind. In the leaving behind, however temporary, awakenings come forth. Opportunities reveal. Travail promises its end.