Continents drift.
Clouds drift.
Wood drifts on water.
Daffodils drift on swirling pools, tossed by your hand from the dock, yellow eyes turning.

We drift.

Chasms open, hearts open and close.
Each grinding leaves dust; the closing not quite complete.

Eyes once hard, soften; lips once dry, moisten; hands once empty, fill.
Desires become dreams; dreams memories.

Distance is not so wide as it seems.

What drifts returns.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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