In the darkness of my dreams, I see a pattern.  In an echo, a longing,  I cry for something I cannot reach.  A tiny object, a flimsy piece of paper that has escaped from my heart to float away from me, always out of reach.  The gust picks it up, cradles it, and carries it just so far.

I think I have it now.  At times, I run.  And no, it is lifted beyond my hand.  The chase, the need, the frustration builds.  My minds-eye believes in it.  Reality denies.

Facades are built in carrots that hang in elusive skies.  Yet, as I continue to follow the incessant lead of a wind-driven need, my resolve to catch it grows stronger with each fervent step.

It flies in the face of failure.  It coasts along the fine line.  And it lands, teasing.  So I can fall, yet again.  On the sidewalk of opportunity, I cry.  I’m left behind it.  It’s ahead of me.

©Erika K Rothwell