The Wildflower Sea
On summer evenings,
I watch smoke rising
from my paper hands,
as I’ve been writing
while I lie within
a wildflower sea,
a rustling world
where there’s only me
and the dreams I weave
out of sweet grass whistles,
singing like reeds through
violets and thistles
and sunlight cast
on this solitary land.
The warmth pools within
my outstretched hand
and paints the smoke
the wistful gold
of what could be
and tales too old
for all but ancient
minds to know.
But in the wind,
their voices flow
and sing of hills
so far away,
the world from which
the stars once came.
Of all the things
I’ve ever dreamed,
there’s nothing
that has ever seemed
so lost and lovely
as what must be
beyond the
wildflower sea.
I watch smoke rising
from my paper hands,
as I’ve been writing
while I lie within
a wildflower sea,
a rustling world
where there’s only me
and the dreams I weave
out of sweet grass whistles,
singing like reeds through
violets and thistles
and sunlight cast
on this solitary land.
The warmth pools within
my outstretched hand
and paints the smoke
the wistful gold
of what could be
and tales too old
for all but ancient
minds to know.
But in the wind,
their voices flow
and sing of hills
so far away,
the world from which
the stars once came.
Of all the things
I’ve ever dreamed,
there’s nothing
that has ever seemed
so lost and lovely
as what must be
beyond the
wildflower sea.