Girl Of The Waking Hours Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

You move through morning
as if owed its widening to you,
your thoughts drifting
into non-gathering—
small sparks catching on the edges
of whatever tries to dim you.

Your chest carries
a faint brightness,
like dawn pressed into a pocket
for later use.

Where you pass,
streets shift their weight.
A busker tunes his brass
at the corner,
not in lament this time
but a rough, rising call
that cuts through damp air
with its refusal to bow.

I tell you I'm afraid to vanish,
but truth
is sharper:
I'm afraid of staying
exactly as I am,
unmoved,
while you keep finding
new ways to step forward.

Afraid I'll stay rooted
while you walk past
stalled avenues warble,
past hours that drag their feet,
toward some spreading place
where even dark
steps sideways.

In the train window
I catch your outline—
half‑fire,
half‑future—
a figure that steadies me
while forgetting
to look ahead.










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