A trail of the past lives inside of me. I cannot remember where to find the opening , but it is in me. What door or gate has wings so wide to embrace me so deeply, when fragments of days gone by abruptly awaken?

Peace is at my core, or, a flicker across my heart when I see the hourglass from afar. I ask myself what holds time, resting in the confines of glass, now my body, my mind, this „I“.  In this chamber the grains of sand exist and form my story. A grain to a moment, always in passing.  Still, a felt resistance as I twirl a single grain between thumb and forefinger. A sincere sketch of a breath in , a breath out. I surrender everything.

Here is the flutter of my nostrils. Inhale and wake. A tremor of my slight existence. I reach out to caress the offshoot of this crop. I graze over the lands of all days I locked eyes with the world; so many , so few. The scent flanks my remembrance. I nearly forgot the way sheets of paper savor the scorching sun in their fibers – midsummer. Ah, what a delight! The anticipation of unsealing a story of another: another book, another swift yet intentional contact of skin to earth, or the fine line I draw into the sky as my gaze wanders off into the distance. Blink.