Am I obsessed, or am I tired
Can I talk of nothing more
Than what I see, or imagine
The dust motes do not seem
To share this confusion
Seemingly happy
To float
Wherever the light
And the thermals take them
Neither any problems, apparently
For the rainbow-like reflections
On the ceiling
Which emanate
From the crystals
Hanging in the window
Outside
The early morning grass
Is frozen; yet the sun
Which is now rising
May soften the crunch
Of those later footsteps
