Its a Nice Day for a Nice Day

Morning holds to nothing, its all ago

partially recalled through 

windows onlooking clarity, constant options

from doors opened to silent airways,

moss with the sort of sobriety laid

over old forgotten stone paths

that usher the dew born passing

from disorderly light worn

from weary stars and equally so, a sound,

a luring invertebral tone,

a disbursement made while it toils over

and over a swell of its very own

display of audible thought, maneuvering 

to find out what is memorial, 

what lasts after what was when partially gone,

what we inevitably rely upon,

for better or worse, as humidity rises upward

while in the midst only our own selves

regarded more in the past and the future

than the alacrity of the present,

how backwards and overly protective,

the house on the lawn stirring

more widespread than any singular step

toward any intended direction

and of course sweet dreams get lost

in their own circumstances,

and it stands that vision has no home

within familiar surroundings,

and what of the message deteriorating

at the moment of delivery

on a hillside, over a horizon, blinded by

the sun vaporized daily when

all that's together are cambrian photons,

color imbued shapes within every

creature ever known to have emerged, such

as you, and me, so briefly, delightful.