Creeping Up To The Edge Of Dawn Poem by James McLain

How long is a long time?
We all do, as we age as a purple grape
right before it is squashed,

And in the time in between
coming awake from deep sleep
is the dream in a dream.
The dream of where you, or if in sleep
awake, to be thought.

Between her and I, was a wall of thought
people thoughts,
thoughts no one else had, thinking thoughts
you know, the same thoughts you know you do now.

Before the edge of dawn as it creeps up
through your thought, right up before.
Out side you see the hope going by in a stream
still uncut from the sky.

The strength in her hand,
As up and out through her fingers.
A broom in a corner
the kind of light, that only comes,
When not yet quite surprised.

Thick, a found out surprise,
real not a shadow.
Where hand's
hand's that are white turn
black, as black as it was before dawn.

In her hand still asleep, yet there's life,
In the dream.
It may melt at the snow covered top,
In a dream at the top of the world.

That pleasant familiar sound
the only kind of sound that it makes.
Every purple grape, every grape
that you popped.