You at the break of day

Daylight is descending
through the curtain to
the peeling paint on the wall,
to flow over the table, fill the mug.
I lift my arm to interrupt
it's path to the dusty shelf,
and feel it stretching
across my palm. Daylight is
touchable when fingers
are cold enough.

Last night, in my dream, you
were in the garden watering the
pear tree, holding some
lettuce for the turtle.
I could smell you. The smell of
a parent is always familiar,
it's the smell of the
soul traveling through your
veins. I tried to catch you
but you crumbled into
fractions of daylight.

It's a solace to think that
you probably have dreams
where I'm breaking too,
you probably try to catch me
every night, and can feel
me through the daylight
of your morning.