Wind awakens in courteous puffs

nudging drowsy trees to breathing, yet

allowing lazy-child chime a sleep-in.

Yawning sun flows over dew-sheen

in soft sighs, sating my August heart.

Yet, with the brimming, fear of the hollow

following; the known ebbing of hope

of this bliss someday returning.

Grass laid down his jeweled-cloak

to cast my steps in brief time, but

……my prints are fading fast behind;

I’ve laid no cave line, the way is lost.

One step passed bliss was taken:

one, two, then more into this alien tangle;

dew-bliss, now, only a suspect memory,

a dying nimbus, a heart’s quiver only.