She cradles her dreams like a rose close to her heart
the fragrance audible to the far reaches of her mind.
The black birds are gone, new waves
high in the surfer’s shrine start building
she reaches walking the far end of the white sand beach,
children are playing and singing
putting flowers in their hair, shimmering colors
of approaching sunset make her dreams real.
What’s it she’s dreaming,
her eyes already climbing the staircase
to the library where she hides her dreams
her voice writing the first line of her play,
“How do you spell catastrophe?”
Imagination can lift through doorways,
wander inside caves, lay dormant
on a curve of a tree, or wait
on the windowsill and call her attention
after a second cup of coffee, a spark
travelling at light speed through all cosmic
barriers and distance to reach her thought.
The children join her. They are all dancing.
She is dreaming, waking, walking.
Which one shall she choose?
The surf, their singing, their hearts, one chorus
of happiness, an impressionist’s moment
of apprehension like the first symptom
of an epidemic, a certainty
that can be overwhelming.