The Mists of Yesteryears

 In the morning,

Dewdrops on leaves
An inward flight
A seaward fleet

Washing ashore, on empty beaches
Stillness and reverie

Thoughts of the maker,
Broken dreams,
Rebuilt and mended
And sold for a dime

We are made of angel dust
He whispers - "If you do not believe,
You will not receive."

In a town for horses
We count stars,
And walk up race courses
And trek through a field of fireflies,
Lighting the way

Amid midnight barking of
Strays and deer
And rickety beds to sleep on
And a rocky ledge to look over

Singing songs for the country
And for brothers in arms
And a trek through the jungle

And inward flight