as the years pass

It is harder to hold to
dreams as the years
pass. They slip like
gossamer in a wind,

which teases, irritable
and disconcerting, as
if it had been planned,
for just these times;

so do we enter the
days of the mundane,
the real, the practical,
without the shawl of

fantasy, to blur the
bitter edges, soften
the hard shapes -
create possibilities

for those we love,
and all of the things
we thought we might
do and be, in this

allotted time. Does
it matter? Or is this
how it was always
meant to be in a

slow process of
waking up, before
the last true moment
of awakening?