Morning Calls Me Home

When the dust settles

I won’t be the same -

give me wings

to fly

in the face

of transformation.

Wind will blow

in different directions,

gentle tugs pull me up

in muddy swirls

of painted crimson.

Layers of doubt

spackled over,

faded eyes,

closed to pale past,

heading into the sun

without backward glance.

Scraping and chipping

dark shadows away

Folded corners opened,

labels peeled off

removing subterfuge.

chips of time elapse.

Bruises of life

cushioned with clouds

wave in the sky,

swaying with

change of the wind.

Morning calls me home.