Hang on to Sunday’smysteries woven in the blueof night sky and golden honey,ablutions like speckssuspended in beamsof gauze-filtered sunlight,just floating there.And Monday’s workaday ache.Hold on to every day,because ghosts come fasternow, waving your immortalitylike gauzy flags, or shrouds.Everything could change--today’s melody quaint and tinny,if you remember it at all.
Late entry for Grace’s challenge to the Real Toads, inspired by the poetry of David Huerta. Thank you, Grace.
Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden!