There’s magic in a daydream;
it conjures up a wish
and makes it seem achieved
though it’s only real-ish.
I dream I’m leaning in
as far as I am able
amid the light and color
with my elbows on the table.
I add some blue-leg’d roosters
who don’t need social distance
and people without masks,
and I summon up resistance.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to this bright cafe in pre-COVID Dusseldorf.
Family update, dear reader: my son is not worse and this is good!
The gardener in winter,
pensive and morose,
imagining what isn’t,
semi-comatose,
captive to the daydreams
of what might be planted where,
sighing to transform
the empty and the bare.
Thanks more to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
When the sound of the trees
goes from swooshes to crackles
and the greens give way
to black and brown spackles
and they all play percussion
on their own dry bones
dig out the flannels
dust off the hearthstones
measure your books
and quilts by reams
and see to your stock
of winter daydreams.
Just when I think
the yellow and pink
are all that the eye can take in
a butterfly skims
like daydreams and whims
to flaunt how I was mistaken.
