Dreaming
by Debra Kraft
Dreaming in that way I do, I melt into the mist
where edges fade, and darkness too, and I need not resist.
My journeys there are safe and warm, for I have full control
in that place where wild adventures form – amusement for the soul.
It takes me to the Amazon, or some new, exotic land
for a dangerous liaison with old foes there, close at hand.
It takes me into forests dark, and deserts harsh and wide;
it shows me stars that fade and spark, then leads me deep inside
to find the damsel in distress, or the brave and noble knight,
or perhaps the warrior at rest from some preempted fight.
I might find a crumbling ruin or perhaps an ancient tome,
or the chords of some forgotten tune meant to guide ancestors home.
Whatever lies in wait for me in that netherworld of mind,
it gives me hope to wander free through portals locked in time:
a trip into the wild west with a horse and holstered gun,
like cowboys on some desperate quest to avoid that setting sun;
or a journey down the Nile, where the pyramids still shine
like castles reaching skyward along the river Rhine.
The stories never cease to rise, the heroes never die,
they can even yield a greater prize when they let me see them cry.
Dreaming in that way I do, I find a kind of peace.
Reality might be the glue, but I prefer the crease
between what is and what can be and perhaps what never will—
the place where legends climb with me to the top of every hill.
I have to take this time to dream before tomorrow comes
and challenges the things that seem the fear of all our sums.
*from Somewhere on the Edge of Words, 2004; revised 2009
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