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.