There are times that are surreal- like a flipping of the switch things go from ordinaire to extraordinaire- and I know at this golden moment in the yellow of the evening sun, that everything I can do will be all right. I know that all the lights will be green very soon, and that anyone in a rush will move around and through me like I am not there. No one will be hurt by me and all that I touch will be golden. I float on, surrounded by angels and I can feel my wings unfurl.

We went for ice cream again this evening in another perfect moment in time. I looked at the menu so I know what to order next week. I always feel there are too many people at the table- ourselves have been there before, will be there again- and all of my memories of every time I have had ice cream before with my grandmother the year after my grandfather died and later when she barely remembered herself, with my parents when they were happy, with my cousin in happier times, with my first awkward date, with my first time for ice cream with this confident man opposite me now. And yet it is just us two, and that is enough. I love ice cream. It is cold, but colorful, and seasoned with more than sensuous vanilla.

And there was a woman there in the restaurant. I knew her well enough to remember listening to her complaints, about her husband, and her children, and her miserable job. I had seen her competence as she packaged something for me. We had talked of creating things, of making things with our hands and the understanding of being that gives us, but her name, the place, eluded me. I knew this woman well. She had laughed at my jokes. She had made me smile in turn, and we had felt a kindred bond of sympathy. This I knew well. But I did not know her. I smiled and exchanged a greeting, then walked on.

It will be a popcorn sky tonight. My dreams are troubled by what I have not done, what I could not do. I may not sleep until dawn. I take my tea out to the porch and greet the moon. Maybe, if I sit here long enough, I will see halos on the moon, or catch a glimpse of Tony among the lilacs. Our modern days are not fit for the like of Byron, Shelley, or Keats, but I know them well. I long for pomegranates and ribbons for my long dark hair, tonight.  ¶ 7:38 PM