Shouldn't…but Do

It begins in the east, of every life, season, or day like this one.

Dawn through vaporous clouds, as smoke clearing a battlefield.  Where were those things, golden things I left behind lifetimes ago?

Burnished red gold, survivors of the fire, the war, that swept these parts.  The sword – discernment – refines and enlivens parts laid low.  Compass – direction – orients and  leads the way forward.  That torn scrap of ancient parchment,  not a map but just as good – depicts an ornate sphere, but asunder, leaves destiny unclear.

Those once dead arise, even slain Asclepius, great healer of the Greeks, rises by the caduceus.  The hobbled sphere completed – redrawn by nature, the workings of ants, the almost unseen agents of life, leading to infinity. The trailing path of the blazing sun, chariot on the western ocean.

Visions, fleeting dreams hidden for safety an epoch ago under the stone of this wrecked colonnade.  I find them again, I knew they were there, it took so much to remember, to recall again into life these things, these golden things at dawn.