Where are mornings simple
as stones and days stretched
long as oceans? Where does
A night chain grows dream by dream?

There are those who would
Take this string, tie it tight, caring
Only for the pieces missing.
They are wound in worry,
Never heading gifts at hand.

I do not speak
To them, but then I lie.
I gather moonstones and pearls.
They grow by night.
I cast them out with the morning.
Their smooth, white faces are cold.
I do not want to look at them,
sweat of prayers and dreams.

Mornings slip away like seals in waves.
Days drown in separate oceans
While the dreams wait hanging.

Morning Stones by Alethea Eason
Fumee d'Ambre Gris painting by John Singer Sargent