Conversations Over Distances

Soughing soft as falling fog--white,

we wade through the effervesce of

evening songs: of Mozart's Andante,

helos stirring up sand in droves to

mask your voice with patterned static,

and old ladies' gated gardens woven

with adelvice vines--we are addled.

We wonder: where, or how, is this,

as we wander through the wade pools of our now,

asking ourselves aloud: What of it?

And slowly, we soon realize how places

and times are not important,

and frozen.