The sanguine light over Puget Sound
rises to undress the restless soul
of November, while I open my front door,
a shadow still grazing on the dust
of midnight dreams, and slip into the day
unnoticed. The street is long, narrow,
a cobblestone place-setting for the stir of
nomadic echoes, and I am, at once, a child again;
flush with anticipation, daunted by uncertainty,
I walk as I have always walked, white-laced,
empty-handed; this steel gray dawn hanging
by the tattered threads of windswept clouds.

Along the waterfront the face of afternoon
drifts quietly, its eyes marking the path
its body will soon reach; so I sit, hungry
for its promise to land upon my shoulders,
and wait; content to remain in the sobering
embrace of an indifferent breeze, while
slivers of blue glass break over my fingers,
and rigid, ocher sands, whisper and moan
under my shifting weight; standing,
withdrawing, only when the mountains,
perched high and leaning, are lost
behind shrouds of salted mist.

Dusk seeps in from every corner, the resin
of its pallid fingers drawing dark curtains
around the shoulders of tall, pale-faced
buildings. Streetlights blink to life, harried
voices, shuffling feet, skip across the pavement,
beleaguered tokens of another day, and I move
effortlessly, until the clarity of night pending
is stained by the rueful smile of a friendship
that could have been, a friendship that will never
be, and I am, at once, a child again; flush with
anticipation, daunted by uncertainty, I nod,
then wander off, a friend unto myself.