ripened fruit

I count my seven coins
perked to the clink of
metal hitting metal

the sound of
turned soil
sweat on the brow
movement stirring below surfaces, unseen
I guess this is how dreams work

patience sitting in the back room
hands turned skyward
gaze to the ground
the strong ache
the stars in my eyes
glinting only for those who look
visions toiled and tended
I guess this is how dreams persist

the honeyed taste of peach
dribbling chin
this moment, conceived long before
knowing nothing but
the tenderhearted hands
light dancing, through open windows
invites the surrender
to the warm bath of promise