Some of us understood when we turned it over and became more intimate with what the day had in store; we learned it is less interesting to know than wonder. So we closed the drape with its bindweed pattern and let the sun run through its lines until the pattern became rehearsed, dry, old fashioned as meter and rhyme. We found so many of our questions could be handled this way, not answered or laid to rest, but packed away unsoiled by what we could not say. Still, there was something we wanted to ask each other and it required us to hold hands look over the edge, with eyes wide, put our faith on the ledge and walk, like A Man on Wire, into the air where the only question that matters is how far do we fall before letting go? The sun, with all its spots, keeps setting the tempo. A beat that brings dancers to their knees as they wait, vibrating like holograms in waves of heat. But you and I have been through that long slow dance of fate, come out the other side of time’s capriciousness where the measure of days, nights, hours,… is as regular as the tide, to find our dance can only be finished in a dream.