What chance is there of making dreams

with the mind and hand working together?

At the end of rehearsals for a larger life

they are stuck sometimes with common revelries;

egg/sun  dropping out in the ocean

leaves only the promise of another vaster day. 


There is our campfire returned to ashes,

the air is asleep in the trees. The notes

of the song have dissipated unflinchingly

among the stars; the surf is now a ribbon

of sound. What is left after the feast

except the empty cluttered tables

and one more memory? 


The seals and birds have gone to their rocks

and we to the warmth of our selves.

What need is there now to light the sky,

to shout into a deep sea,

to offend the slumberous deities

one by one wrapping themselves

in the solitude of world without myth? 



All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.    Copyright 2002 David Wiley.