Listen, this is not a joke
or a passing fancy.
A moment can feel ripe
even when it appears with an undercurrent
of foreboding. I don’t know where it comes from:
I don’t see it but can tell you
with utter conviction
that there is a second sky
where everything we’ve ever wished for
has grown roots. Like tendrils,
like the roots of mangrove trees,
they’ve thickened from being submerged
in the syrup of longing.
Then one day, an opening appears.
You feel its magnetic prodding
as you make your way, as your craft
comes nearer and nearer and finally
the shapes of dream villages
rise up to offer fields, hills,
a barn, a room where you might bring
your heavy suitcase and set it down.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.