I found a flower on the ground,
the only flower sprouting
in a field of concrete.
I called it Jesus.
Now, every morning,
I visit to watch the miraculous thing
lift up the sun, marveling
at how it pulls light into cupped leaves,
and scatters it.
Jesus calls it rain,
and every day I,
with all the creatures of the land,
all critters crawling on cement,
drink until well drunk.
We watch clouds swirl into stars
and laugh.
Sometimes, to make us laugh some more,
Jesus takes a seed,
covers it with sand,
and skips it across the night-water,
where its reflection becomes our reflection,
a silver joy round in endless sky.
On those nights,
birds eventually descend into their nests,
dogs and cattle nestle,
and long echoing yawns
slip
from the bottom of my chest
to fill the land with sleep.
We sleep, Jesus and I.
We dream, Jesus and I.
Our dreamscapes never needing concrete.
We, never needing legs,
with their bulky burden of muscle, bone, and flesh.
We fly
like fish fly sea.
We breathe
like fish breathe sea.
The world is open
and we are free
to forget who is who,
and what is what,
and what the name
of Jesus is.
That is the sweetest thing.
On these many flights I cry,
and my sad and happy tears scatter—
Until eventually I wake
on level ground,
with half remembered dreams
sprouting through my heart.
