Ode to Frivolous Daydreams

Daydreaming of writing

About the stars

With beach grass blowing

Around my face and

The smell of the sea tickling

My nose, watching

As the constellations brighten

Like freckles darkening

In the sun, watching

As they melt into a sunrise

Brilliant with the smile

Of the universe, watching

As the clouds put on a production, a

Tragedy maybe, or

A history of the imaginations

Of the children who chase them and

End up laying on their backs, arms

Stretched up at the pictures

They can see, an ability which might

Slither away as they age, like the sky

Slipping back into the stars;

I can see those pictures still, but

What if there comes a day

When I can no longer find the dragons

And the rabbits, and

What will I do then?

What will I, or

Anyone do when

We can no longer daydream?

This was supposed to be

About the stars, but

I’d like to cling

To this ability, where

I can write about frivolous things

With such subtle demand

For hope, and maybe

This poem makes no sense, but

Isn’t that so lovely?