The now of dawn bides
in the paint
the perpetual memory
of what childhood said.

 

You listen to the mist
to hear the return of youth
to know the first taste
of dew in new hours,
the secret of jade that reveals amethyst.

 

Alone is not the feeling,
nor obligation, in the clouds of morn
but affirmation that remembrance attests
to continuing life
to giving back
the promise in the cycle of felicity sanct.