New Order

slight breath
of late afternoon
looks away
with thoughts far removed:

to know you so well
sometimes
i must become
the perfect stranger
– a vision
so clear
so remarkable
one can feel
         the echo
but miss
         the texture
         of the colors

dancing motes of dust
intrude with whimsy
i watch
your special grace
and my attitude
returns to mirth

one can only be serious
so long
and then it becomes
a dangerous habit