What does not get done hovers in retrospect,
as idea in the village of adagio.
My unmarked words, receptive to your cameo
appearance in a dream that ought to have included you.
An informal resurrection pieced together
mimics a propitious opening.
White oak flooring, views of the mountain,
sinecure and faith replete with instinct.
In a moment each of us will seem eternal.
As for now, we have achieved that state freehand.
