zoë fairweather
Tomorrow is my promise and my savior.
I am laid at his feet nightly,
cold and hungry, and lulled to sleep.
His toes are my pillows. I wake up shot
lightyears away from him and full.
He urges forward all the streams and drops the summer’s leaves.
Leaves, unlike fruit, ripen in death.
They speak to me of things like god and tomorrow.
Tomorrow is my faith.
“Oh, Perennial Father Time, grant me forever feeling” I once prayed
in a home with no god.
I was too old to accept things like dying.
A younger me was wise enough to see
our deaths intertwined, mine and his.
He is with me in the clocks and the early sunset.
He is with me when I search for
dogma in fact.
Death is no comfort, nor punishment.
Each and every Brand New Day amidst
the season change delights and burns.
In a life without worship, we hope.
@zoe.bgf