Saturday, June 01, 2013


Ten thousand dreams and wishes,
imprinted on golden bits of cellulose
One by one, in tens and hundreds,
falling to the ground to plant themselves
Fingerlings and arms and tendons,
bare to the blue sky–reach and reach again
Diamond ice bracelets and earrings
and droplets of pure pale silver sparkle
Winged things can’t help but stop
here before sailing on the ocean winds

A man walks below
and sits down on a cold bench there
His feet crush the little gold bits on the ground;
they fracture into more gold
He takes out a journal, heavy with content -
his back sags over the pages
His head is full of things, it sinks down on his shoulders.
He writes and writes.

He writes two words in Latin and a note…
an unremarkable varietal specimen...
The tree goes back to dreaming.

~Grace Gibson

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