Perfect Day
 
What makes a perfect day?
A morning risen, full of scant expectation and hope
Laid to rest, on a chariot of pink-blue clouds and golden spokes?
Or that which should end, but which does not end;
A day wrested from death’s chill embrace?

What makes a perfect day?
A glimpse of a friend, a touch, a spoken word;
A momentary sigh through the bars of a cage?
Or those moments which slide from one to another
In the arms of your lover?
 
Pete Sawyer