A Time for Wishes

What if nothing ever happens, will there still be time for wishes?
Will every hand I hold be fleeting?
Is it too late to grab the strings that brocade life into a silken cloak?
If I could find the words, would I put my wish into a sentence,
Or would I try to pull the ink back out of the page in fear of never?
What if instead I pull the edges in around that glossy wish
And turn it into damped down hammered gold?

It’s a wish for heaven’s sake, Why not?
I miss the simple act of presence.

The Golden Apples of Central Park