Another day slips into the shadows of its past,
Which grow on the vines of loveliness,
Fast in the cold, so plump and ripe
Until in clusters drops, mind gathering
To dreams, awash in their taste.

Or was it so? The movement of light
Across time's spectrum in material is not indifferent
To the question, perhaps fruitless, of whether...

Whether I am sitting in my room?

Perhaps it is the deep house of our lives,
Of which it is inhabitance to know.