Sleepy gauzy warm late spring afternoon,
when boundaries fade
between our world and dreams.
That’s where the latest episode began.
There are diamond shapes when I blink
and muppets when I open a closet.
The music is from 1944 and flight
into the stratosphere is strictly sci-fi.
A heron soars across the ceiling
which is really a sky but I don’t quite see
the difference between in and out.
That’s a made-up principle, I think.
I was faced with four generations
of poetic larceny, with a mirror to
forest succession, all moss and mushroom
with no fairy tale in sight.
Another morning of fog lasts too long
except for the moments with him
which rush by like wildflowers
through a car window.
There will be a quiet celebration,
one of whispered thanks and promise.
I’d like to be fully awake first
but I’m not sure that’s a state for me.
Maybe the best gifts are the moments
inside bookstores, where thousands
of ideas float about and time is
a silly construct.
Muddled mornings and alt afternoons
with birds of prey high overhead
and rocks slowly softening
back to dust below.
Today is open and quiet
with no promises or need for definition.
Today is picking up threads
to continue weaving a dragon tapestry.
The Word Rummager 
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