First dream of a place where dreams don't
exist. Of lengthening a tiresome pace before
you can catch your breath. Or that a thousand puddles could
prevent the rising tide. Point your eyes to the stars,
now point them to the sea, breathe deeply and swipe away
the fog. Now give a wave of your hand when I pass by, don't
stand up so the waves can wash over your feet.
Sleep late but don't let those dreams fool you
into thinking that the hours don't mean anything. Or
that the weather is going to change, or that the
birds love to make amends. Nobody knows their names
anyways. All one really needs is the green grass, the
view from someone's lap and a sturdy umbrella.
The leaves will always change and sever their point of attachment;
autumn will leave while winter beats down your windows.
Do not worry. It is too often that worry darkens your door.
Listen to the weaving of the clouds and
the whirling of trees,
keep your ear to the ground and your teeth
gnashed, ready to fight for the amazing place
we called home.
by Matt St. Peter
by Matt St. Peter
