All my dreams are scentless white flowers
all my yearnings
earnest, thriving, intimate.
They’re
scattered volcanic islands on placid lakes. Cradled in plate tectonics
and mantle plumes, not
long enough to last. While a day is all I count now,
no more no less, I bring only small buns and smaller wants
to the modest table at our home.
It’s a farmer’s simple house, tiny attic, verdant hill slope,
petunias on windowsill, cane chairs,
smoke rising from the chimney, and you and me having tea.
If you’re tempted so, a morning to wander too,
up the rocks, sun beams,
smiles for strangers
ending up being friends.
My dreams are
Stepping-stones,
evolving,
diverging,
sometimes drowning.
They’re struggling, trying to fit, all-in-one, one-in-all,
staying put for this time to pass, shooting stars,
random scribbled thoughts.
