. . . . Bless This Morning Year . . . .

I sent a postcard
it told of . . . . me - and spoke to . . . . you
of many places visited
silent mornings sweeping over still sleeping people, animals and plants
oceans rare - clear crystal pure and untouched
fragile streams that tiptoed through dirt cracks along the side of the road
stars that only appeared momentarily behind clouds after the evening rain
I wrote it wet - dripping - drenched in sweat - from the heat - almost insane
I sent you memories - experiences - a majestic train ride from a now forgotten old disheveled train
I sent you all that
and sometimes - i think more
sitting along the melting oil painting sunset on this abandoned shore
I kept nothing here
my only company the moon and sun
and prayed "bless this morning year"
so besides you - I might soon be able - to once again run
I wrote this postcard
from a shore - a distant dream domain
and watched as my glass bottled note - drifted out to sea
time smile at me - but I felt - that in all honesty
she failed - an answer to maintain . . .