Fading words are my daily dose of morning prayer.

A catch before the half-light,

soft and molten.

woven spool caught

between

the flicker of memories.

A soft word equals

a brief savior from the extinction

of this moment.

So, maybe, this is the place where oblivion can fade,

within the navel of the moon,

where death leaves under the gentle breaths

of Bugambilias

and the strums of words

that no longer exist.

Now, quick! Before it evaporates tell me of

the yellow brick on yellow mortar,

and how my grandmother used to

sing in an ancient dialect I no

longer remember,

and how now,

silence fills the walls,

and how much I hate it.

All I want is for

yesterday,

to stumble

through the back door,

her with it.