Might There Be a Ritual

Might there be a ritual

beyond the spectral veil

which we might know

from having practiced it here; 

below?

The reckless blowing away 

of the pappi 

of a well-seeded

fluffy

dandelion? 

Puff.

The studied dropping 

of an egg from the roof

to macadam 

in a padded coffee can?

Kerplunk.

The gentle shepherding 

one by one 

of fireflies into a jar

with vented lid?

Twist.

Something that we might

claim familiarity by and against;

a similarity bridge that

sets us and puts us 

to ease

once we cross o’er?

A gentle-hugged

greeting by a friend? 

A walk upon a golden, 

crisp autumnal path?

An anchor by which

to hold our me? 

A dock by which

to moor our soul?

A calm? A moment?

A glint on the edges

of our new

environs?

There might be,

but we must 

the pattern set - here.

Below.  

Before.

Rehearsed.