For the First Fog of October

If an idea exists but is never found, then the stained-glass windows will reflect nothing back to the ear. Most days filter through the mind, waiting not for movement but for a road to be built, brick by brick, word by word, weariness replaced with joy, but what is joy without the years and the way they open constantly, two or three hearts pumping a volume of blood meant for just one? Our disbelief in the ordinary emerges from the way we color routine: leaves pile up depending on the wind, but why pause to notice? Eventually the seasons embrace what our words will not, the illuminated day just one of a thousand others, and the names we give back to the world mean ultimately little against the way the sun pleads sense from the smallest cradle of dew.