How rude the dawn, ignorant of our needs to boldly blast its way into the darkness of our minds. How crude, how primitive; unwilling to adjust in synchronization of the modern world’s new sense of time.
To rise not to the lowing full-uddered cows but rather kisses of goodbye found in the dark. To read long beyond the candle’s power. And in between, to reach across the highway to Japan, Africa, Anywhere, but miles and days away that take no longer than to carry the milkpail from the barn.
Both of us stubborn. And I, to prove myself the wiser, more willing one to bend, learn to fall backwards into time.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology