It's early where the sun hides away,
to look for stars, yet they're not to be seen.
Much more than clouds darken this day,
but some returning feeling that has no name.
Some place apart and a place in between,
neither, both, where I am the same.
Night and dreams are but strangers,
sleep is no rest, but a wasteland for worries.
Is there words for the unnamed dangers,
in places not so anxious, hope more beautiful.
The sound of a voice is sweet and carries,
and strengthens the human crucible.
Who has this become in your heart,
a stranger like myself, much as I used to be.
He thinks of you more should you part,
yet every day the same, thinking of the word.
It is like a name but more, as a part of me,
so like the sweetest words I've heard.
A picture resides within, resilient,
the memory as clear as day in perfect detail.
I experience life so near and so brilliant,
and discover myself in the days and the years.
Next to you the colors of the season pale,
taking away a life's doubts and fears.
I can dream now of ordinary things,
and not be left to dream them alone by day.
To know of the sweetness caring brings,
it should be no mystery but sweetest wonder.
So take me now, bring me along the way,
again beneath the stars thereunder.
Brian Francis Hudon
October 3, 2016