As we turn toward the light

dreams drift away.

Mothers and fathers

so vivid in voice and gesture

return to the shadows.

As we turn toward the light

our senses awaken

to sleep-scented sheets.

Dawn slides from charcoal

to mauve to lilac.

As we turn toward the light,

clouds blush.

Our fingers curl, anticipate,

regret.

Branches etch an eggshell sky.

The square space encloses.

As we turn toward the light,

vision narrows to a point.

The wide, fulsome dark

of dreams and possibilities

retreats.

The hourglass flips.