A young breeze delivers you from
night´s cocoon, as it mimes in
the reeds what might be possible,
even this day. Every step´s a grace
and the leaves sing in prism a key
of consolation.

When a day crumbles, as it sometimes
does, compass and pointer playin´
tricks on you, without being asked,
the sextant, within a drop of dew,
might place your coordinates,
pace them, in spacetimes´s light.