dusk attaches itself to the ground,
tree bone shadows stretch, making
snow angels in whispered blue.

life is bountiful, boundless but
my voice?  your voice?
we are not made to last beyond
this one chance we have to embrace.

and once our souls lose the sound
of our voices, i do not believe
we are remembered, maybe just
felt as some haunting echo,
some ache in the bones of the future.

so come with me, and i will make
blueberry, gingerbread pancakes.
you will pour the orange juice
into the morrocan glasses.

we will dim the lights and light
the candles, talk about the day
and our dreams which lie beneath
it, and we will breathe in life
and be unafraid to live it.