First time, ever I wrote something here.
I found a once lost narrative to time.
Where a river’s night rumbled in the waking air.
Stories forgotten, letters, words written in bare earth.
As our moon rolls down her window to a morning sun.
Stretching out finger tips to touch a wondrous moment.
That fresh scent of salt, floating in on our river’s tide.
No rush for the day, just breakfast peering through the glistening,
Winter’s dew on a long forgotten web, like the first time,
Ever I read her tale, some other story, some other place now.