Hours

In the dead of blue sad hours,

absorbed in thought

everything is observed.

Sounds, scents, motions, footsteps, and lights.

A

swirling

sweeping

tumbling

washing machine lullaby.

Tranquillity itself.

In dreams

quiet

strange

beauty bustles.

Clever older eyes

divinely enticing.

Softly,

amicably,

indolently onwards in her own sweet time.

Modesty taking pleasure in

A certain frostiness.

Glancing the same glances

dancing the same dances.

Heart beguiling Spring.

Still beautiful.

Delusions are agreeably everything

and

nothing.