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I Dreamed This MAG
I aspire to pluck something beautiful
from the intangible – the hazy – the imaginary –
and grow it on paper, etch
its likeness into lined leaves, press color and life into ink and graphite, embraced by two halves of a battered notebook
It shall lie there, sleeping, waiting, breathing; I’ll
press my lips to the gossamer surface and taste the essence of patience; with my hand, a pen tip will coax sunshine into it to cast light,
to make shadows
Under an exacting eye, it will be meticulously
molded, prodded, rubbed raw, and
just as it begins to awaken from its meditative, buried slumber, I
shall sing to it as I set it afire, and
when the embers have licked it, melded ashy tears with burnt fire,
I will hold it close to my chest and then
I will set it free
into the intangible – the hazy – the imaginary –
adorned with wings of faith so that the next who finds it caught,
kite-like, in a nearby tree,
will marvel at its loveliness and sow it into her heart
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If I didn’t write, I might asphyxiate.