What the dream gave me

I fight the pass of seasons,
longing to create
differences where there are
no differences.

The desire to
impose a timely structure:
monument by prior arrangement,
practice goodbye.

No matter how perfectly
bags are packed
when the going comes
what was is abandoned.

Wishing wells are aptly named,
hope spoken into the abyss;
forgiven, brought up again
watered down, something
to be spilled on more reasonable ground.

In the end we embrace-
not long enough, or hard enough,
already beginning
to wake up.