Is there a wish to be living sixty years on
as I see my vintage prayers
fade before the Storm’s crescendo?
No, just walk me down to church on time,
in the rain coat I’ve earned,
a place where all colors become one.
Until them, I am the silent witness
the quizzical light in our world
filling a need for a sculptor
who turns out molds for others.
But deeper questions persist
like, is it blue or green,
that dreamscape in your eyes?
I leave vexing questions to others
and focus on the day, the need,
the trip home, to where you are.