LiterarySerenity

Where do you come from, Wandering Child, asked the dreamer after opening the front door, with your hair woven of dandelion strands and fresh moonlight? Your slim feet are bare, and your shawl flutters about your bony shoulders like lavender petals caught in a whispery breeze. I come from Everywhere and Nowhere, came the reply, where juvenile realities start and aged fantasies come to rest. Never to be found on a map, although most souls hear, see, touch, and taste it in brief flashes. During quiet moments, when they let tides flow in that are often sealed away by the perceptions of what can only be true and what could never happen. The child sat on a wooden stool placed upon the welcome mat, clutching a hurdy-gurdy in willow-branch arms—with pupils like pomegranates, and skin a beautiful chestnut hue. Why have you come to me?   I will play music and sow seeds. Your gifts are best delivered to others. The dreamer shook a tired head. A harsher worldview got here first, with too much

A lone figure stands on a beach under starlit heavens. Nothing more, nothing less. Unseen, the natural gravity of the universe presses down her shoulders and prevents her from drifting away. A cool breeze sweeps at her lavender dress, while mortality (for now) is happy to nip at her sandals with tiny pincers. The waves keep reaching out to grasp for her, but she knows enough about tides on full moon nights to stay just out of their range. Even so, fear of the dawn to come grips at her heart, things yet to accomplish flood her mind, and the need to advance tingles down her spine. They rise higher and higher in the basement of her soul, until there is no recourse except to release them as songs carried away by salty sea breezes. Passersby hear her and comment, "Ah, what a beautiful song. I wish I could be that peaceful." Elms caught in a storm seem silent in their struggles when glimpsed by people

On our early trips hot air balloons rise up high glinting in the dawn

“I am stardust frozen within a moment,” the vision enveloped in white gauze echoed. “Caught in mid-step, so I can still feel the density of each floorboard on the stage, await every rehearsed chord, and yearn for each gesture in one last performance. Forever between the past and the present, and unable to move onto what could be.”                 The figure drew closer to the glass. “Please, dance my dance.” It was a desperate plea, and the woman on the other side hesitated, afraid to take the same steps that had snatched away this soul admired from childhood, right before an audience. A soul who had haunted her more with each passing year, until she had avoided any reflective surfaces.                 But one night in a dusty attic, confronted unexpectedly by a full-length visage, clear blue eyes stared into her own. A forgotten look, filled with tenderness, that embraced the woman.                 “Dance my dance,” came the plea again. “Let me go.”                 A deep breath.

His imagination ran away with him... ...they still send me postcards.

There’s rain at the front but up the stairs it is dry— we choose where to stand

Let me dance amid the snowflakes again              just like a mystical beast in her first winter unable to fathom creation in all its splendor other than as a realm filled with magical possibilities                 tossed about on the great oceans of time   Rather than become rooted to the ground I want to taste the ambrosia found in hoping that                           as the landscape transforms into verdant costumes                               it is possible to take flight on pearlescent wings                                             and slide on rainbows                                                  rather than stand                                                    under raindrops   The metaphors used to flow past my fingertips        in the way of lean minnows along a crystalline stream but nowadays the thunderclouds overhead are too loud    and the minnows have grown spikes as a preemptive defense         while I try to find cracks       to

Oh, tearful child you treat my leg like a tree– a good place to cling

He sings a love song while working on his small car and I listen… awed

Legendary tales are told of his kindly acts-- that great froggy mage