There may be a line,
but it’s porous as a colander,
between a concrete now and
a moments conscious dream.
I love best the dream times,
when wren’s song is angel choir,
a luxurious linger in a morning embrace,
is a lifetime of heaven in cotton and lace.
I know, I know!
Washing the parties pots and pans
is a necessity,
like paying the bills,
like trudging the kosher food aisles
in ShopRite on Friday afternoon.
But, Dear One, there is no line between
the substance of things not seen
and the evidence of things which
please us, feed us, oil us,
caress us with long, curly, black hair,
cruxify us, spear us!”
In this tragic magic-show-life,
the cold discomfort of a stone bench
in a winter night park
is but a thought away
from a fur covered ride
in a miniature sleigh,
pulled by eight tiny reindeer
with a little old elf
so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be
a Chechen Uber driver
looking to make a fast buck!
“Consider the wren, singing in a spring woods,
and come. Come sit with Mary and I.”