Found him on the highway,
trading new dreams for old;

his well-worn dream,
that once hung from a star,
lay half buried in the dust;
some big parts broken,
some little parts hurt;

pictures moved
in his rheumy eyes
washed out and creased,
his calloused hands, cradling time,
snagged hope’s fragile wings;

take my rotting dream, he cried
I’m all out of spirit!
give me one built of that
which makes flowers
bloom each spring,
fresh as the scent
of the sleeping earth
when the first raindrop sings;

take my dream and nurse it well,
make of it what you will,
it was born in a storm,
and raised on a whim,
just be gentle with it.

April:#14- 08/30