Lucky, Fit To Dream

The haze of winter subsides as
recklessly as it came,
whitish dots on the window,
panes iced over by wind and shear.

The warmth it brings nears and
covers me, holding, cradling me,
guarding against the onset of night, fading
in and out, late and early.

The night is spent in slow, surreal
comfort, the kind of welcome malaise
that brings me to my knees, and you
to yours, as colors fade to sepia and beyond.

Waking is sweet sorrow, given the hour and
the task at hand, but in dreams we live
and in life we wake and take the hours
into the future, if we're lucky.