there are certain afternoons,

(and this is one of them)

where i am supposed to be productive,

but wind up instead,

frolicking in certain activities that i usually do not engage much in.

and the way these shafts of light

fall across my path, seem

like steps to a better way where

the end is a me

as beautiful

as delicate

as powerful

as present

as a rose in the springtime

blooming with a knowing mind

of a breath that's new

of a grace unfair

of a love that promises

a place with you.