separate chambers of the mind slowly come together again,
as the sun begins to steal the nights reign.
A locked door with a broken doorbell.
A small window, just large enough to climb through
and a handful of pennies.
Leaping from stone to stone
as the mist from a waterfall
moistens the skin.
A fallen tree becomes
the site of a picnic,
or a throne.
Recycled words and concepts
dance around a haystack
in an old unknown tradition.
The changing of the time has changed,
leaving my computer with a stupid grin
and excuses as to why it would sleep in.
* * *
black tea is just not the same as coffee.
John Otter 