Who said one needed to wake up
and leave the tiny stones behind?
Who said stop
flipping them and marveling
at the little mysteries
that creep and crawl like stars at night?
I think you should curse them,
that voice that ends you—
better yet, forget it,
the voice and curse too.
Skip along the river;
there are stones there too,
there are flowers giggling
and owls hooting hoo!
You know that dreams don’t actually end?
They blend like one cloud into two,
like blue sky into midnight,
like a hand on the soft curve of a back,
and like a mother and father into you.
No, it’s not over yet, those little cartoons,
those storybook pop-ups,
and rub-on tattoos.
Remember that? 25 cents, a bit of water,
and your arm became a canvas.
Remember that,
your body is still a canvas,
and that your mind hidden in its woodland
is the hermit artist.
It knows that to know
you’ve got to abandon the noise,
forget the calendar and toss aside the toll.
Take your hand, brush it on stone,
dig your wriggling fingers
into the soil
and flip the world upside down.
There, what have you found?
