In pursuit of daydreams I have often wandered
down a street in lusty sunlight
with timeworn, stone walls,
chasing an ever-elusive romanticism—
because of a lost sense of self and each other—
only to stumble upon, tucked away,
a stupefying scene of utopically
blooming buds beside a medieval gate,
signified by an anciently scripted placard.
Or I have strayed under open skies,
chancing possible intimations of rain
to bask in sheer emotion
brought on by rolling hills
and the view of distant mountains.
Or I have shut my self in,
paints and pens in hand
or with scissors and threads,
in a midnight mania to create what I cannot elude,
despite my disenchanted routine
that threatens to squash spontaneity
as it dangles job security
and paying off student loans over my head,
a carrot for someone else’s end.
Still I want to reach
for the mystical beauty promised
in so many songs and psalms,
always hoping that a simple gift
or that sitting on the sunset-lit beach
will pull me toward the ineffable;
where words dance like gypsies,
and the sun is always dawning.