Most of the time

I'm not drunk with longing that makes the words come easy. I'm not falling with a rush that steals my breath. The stars don't wheel around me or blaze in breaking joy. It's not all joy and wonder, But beyond that to something solid and real. My head is well above water and I see land in sight. It's a city beyond the city that is dreamed of past the edge of site. Memory isn't forgotten, but held precious tight. Perhaps again it will take me if the scarecrow speaks tonight.