Gracious edges,
kismet starts,
meek to bleak,
without a heart.
Sitting once under,
a shady tree,
waiting for the day,
you and me.
Simply a dream,
obtuse observations,
twelve allocations,
and I saw your footprints,
right behind me.
You must’ve vanished.
Then I heard you call,
the faint whisper,
of the veil lifted.
A glimpse,
what is to be,
has already happened,
many times before.
petrichor - archive 