Eventually

Along the narrow curved path, an umbrella of trees

hold back the sun's warmth and I am left with the cold

harsh reality of the dream from which I can no longer escape;

Through the pages of the book, I look at the watercolors

of each day like a detective searching for a fingerprint,

an identifiable trademark, the accuracy of doubt,

a simple brushstroke out of place as if a

cartoon's logic is superimposed on an illusion of blended colors . . .

the light's heat melts yesterday's pigments and the wind-bent

trees kiss path that always in time, takes me home.

April 1986