Remember seeds falling wayside and on fertile soil?
I wonder about this ground composing our bodies:
What if moments of promise are sown all over the world
like snowflakes in silent descent throughout the night
Dream drops that might fall and dissolve never noticed
or else finding embrace, they spring up palatial,
at least as hope for good-enough days, for kissing, love.
Doesn’t it all depend on the ground we’ve made?
Like words take shape in our mind, heart, or soul.
They can grow up purple, prickly pear, or poems.
I don’t care or I do. Last night’s dream was a canvas
and words we color will make this place barren or bloom.