Where in the world are you at?

Are you beneath the curling leaf,
a cosy caterpillar of hibernating show?
I think maybe you will show yourself
upon the next step’s ripple.

Maybe between the breath of the seconds,
you will slip like a dancer between prismatic veil.
And you will smile gladly at my mortal impatience to say,
“I’ve always been here.”

I hope you won’t wait till sfumato comes
at the end of wispy sleep,
with me riddled unfocused by his dust.

At the beginning when promises lie,
the landscape of desert and storm,
and at the end when hopes are placed in downy beds,
the only comfort as such a mass of blood and bone can know,
is having given all in the search for you.