A bit of honey upon the bread makes it oh so tasty and sweet
but oft times we forget the honey and the bread
and just grab a mouthful of cornmeal
instead.

And I can’t express what is in my heart, but then
when have I ever had that express desire
fulfilled?

And oh I’m waiting
as the autumn leaves float down around my head
and oh I’m waiting
for something more than promises of breathless hope to here remain
for something more than promises of fragile tea mugs in their alcoves
for something more than promises of lighted candles upon the windowsill
and oh I’m waiting
oh oh I’m waiting
for leaves of summer to crown my brow
someday soon
someday
and then shall I weep anew for fulfillment sweet
and so I’m waiting
for that crimson sunset
and in-drawn breath
before the silence
before the storm,
before the long
lost called home.

Meanwhile listen
for that true music,
echoing of ages past
echoing of age to come
echoing achingly
painfully
wonderingly
wonderfully
staggeringly
beautiful
and so
listen closely, for it still sings
faintly yes,
but it still sings.

And better now than scattered crumbs of mercury and steel,
the true bread rests upon the plate, invitingly warm and hearty,
even a little bit of honey drizzled sweet,
that worn old book sings to me anew,
not faintly now.
Sometimes yes,
but not the now.