I long to walk a barefoot path again,
in the soft summer sand of a childhood creek.
I long to move silently on wet autumn leaves,
to drift in the earth tones after rain,
and be showered by a shimmering limb,
where a frightened squirrel tries to hide.
Yet I still feel the sand, and in another season,
I can smell the air of the harvest morning.
Within my time machine,
I can stop and listen to the crackling sound
beneath my boots of a hard frost of sparkling
diamonds in the pasture of a cedar valley,
the trees decorated in crystal prisms.
I can see the white light of sacred snow
revealing every contour of lost secrets
on a hillside of gray trees.
I can feel the fire in the wood stove,
and hear it ticking and cooling like time,
in a cabin in deep woods. And moving on,
I return to spring in a glass of lemonade,
golden as a daffodil, sweet as a first kiss.
I cannot go there but I do,
I cannot touch a dream,
but I can feel it in my heartbeat,
like a movie I have seen before,
like the final dance that ends the year.
Thanks Lyn, glad you liked it. The image is the actual creek where I played as a child.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Reading this poem here you understand that it is the words and the icons they bring into surface which enable us to live that life we live.Without this art how would life be?