The evenings are soft in June.
Blue and pink mist rippling through
Sleepless lilac-scented nights.
The silvery shadows of seabirds
Gliding over a quiet carpet of sea.
Contours are blurred, but never dissolved.
Even at midnight you can hear
the eerie cry of terns hunting low in the sky.
Dreams can be waved freely from
Sail-less ship masts on evenings like this,
Even if you find yourself in the middle
Of a port-less sea.
Those who dress in morning red
And bathe in snow like feathers
Are never really poor.
They break their earthly bonds
Easily like withered chains
And unfold their dreams like wings
Leaving only trails of sunlit clouds
To march across the sky.
We are consumers of grace,
A forever renewable greenery
Gardened by a gatekeeping horizon
Opening and closing its borders
Before our dream-bespectacled scrutinization,
Feeding our numbness alternately
with empty words and promises.
There seems to be
A persistent current tugging us
Leaving us speechless
While watching our dreams
recede to impossibility.
It will take all our strength;
The straining of every muscle
of the imagination
To resist its inscrutable will.
Sometimes, it is what you don’t say
You live by:
The sooted, almost-burned-down logs
That no one ever kindled
But that still warms
Your every thought,
Like smoke signals from a heart
Lost in a forest
Frozen by mundanity.
It was strange to see you
In these quiet days
Like the sun
Leaning into the
Like a shy Foehn wind
into the woods.
But I guess it happens
To all of us when we,
Like the golden dawn
Folding away the last
Remains of night,
Outgrow our dreams
And fold our ordinarity