In the world of myths, good and evil are unremarkable, merely footnotes in a narrative. However, in this patch of earth and sky, both actors are only too real.
Good.
What is it? a person? A state of mind? An act? A result?
It was her. No, it IS her. She lives. In a smile stealing across my face beneath a shade of her memory, in the words and habits transferred without pay or parchment, In her family. In her family.
Evil.
what is it?
Now we wouldn’t waste text and time talking about that would we? Silence is it’s grave.
This is to her, this is to all those who slept. It makes me wonder about beds and blanket and morning.
Esiere o!
BEDROLL FOR THE SOUL 
Can anyone ever be dressed to go?
Would the timing ever be right?
Is there use for bedclothes? You should know:
You slept before the night.
Asleep under a blanket of loam
With heads on pillows of sand,
The stillness of years on a steady foam,
Your beds bespeckle the land.
Tears marked your home with a headstone
But its weight couldn’t keep place with time
Over the years your memory had grown (dim)
Into a storied object of predesign.
Light like pollen from dawn’s tender shoot,
make shadowy dreams scurry everywhere.
At dusk, all fall and lie underfoot.
Does any dreamer, or his dream, lie here?
