Six Part Canon

If a sensation somewhere between

restless expectation and serene resignation

could be split into five equal parts,

and each assigned to a Muse

of young age and little to no experience:

One could extend white-washed wings

and fly atop the pines, not afraid of falling asleep,

for a worthwhile dream it is, to be finally awakened;

One would wait in the darkness

of a dimly-lit classroom, poised to spearhead

shadow crumbs, remains of a crusade against herself;

One would breathe within the glare of a blade,

the unapologetic purity of a January snow crystal,

the chance meeting of laughter and a cold lay-by;

One might move in memories, day after day

wishing for means to approach the distant,

until she finds that miracles do happen from time to time;

One could ration her heart for harsher times,

quietly slumbering among snow and strawberries

for the time being, she won’t say “thank you;”

Last is a guest, holding colorful threads within his hands;

they demand attention, require a long postponed

fulfillment, but sleep takes hold and ignorance does have power.