Collecting Paradises Poem by Max Reif

I sit in the garden
of the Sunflower Cafe',
here in Sonoma, California,
listening to the slow
trickling of water from the womb
of the old, ceramic fountain,
as from a place before birth

on this springgreen, sunsmile
early April day, green fountain
of a date palm rising up
behind me, and slow trickle
of a few diners' voices swimming
lazy into the pool of sound,
and I think:

All my life
I have tried
to collect paradises
to make them last — to live
in the Garden and never leave —

like the time Ed came
into my little bedroom in Denver
as I was reading Rumi
upon a new Indian bedspread,
leaning on a Persian pillow,
music in the air and flowers
I'd picked myself in a big vase,

and speechless for a moment,
he finally said:
'It's like a paradise in here! '

And I thought, that's good,
but he meant, I'm pretty sure,
that we have to face
the world as it is,

we can't escape
into paradises.

To be sure,
that one didn't last:
a few weeks later
I left Denver feeling homeless,
walking and howling in shadows,

but any time I can
I try again,
and some day I'll have paddled
up the rivers of life to the Source,
and will plant my flag in that Garden,
and never leave.