Thought feels the edges.
Just so far it was only yesterday?
So far it seems now till tomorrow.

Time isn’t space.
Away for the day, one says— 
gone fishing. Now and again.

The sounds echo in the quiet morning—
such faint edges of place, things, not yet quite seen.
But one knows the familiar presences.

The world will be as one left it,
still there, to reappear again perhaps
where it always is.