Through Imagination’s Eye
Where across the landscape
is the blunt protruding object
that trips our vision,
where is the truth
that captures people
and wraps them in gossamer?
Words are so mighty
they can string an ache
on the line of a heart,
let it absorb all the nuance
of a minutes captured view
and like a painting of a backyard fence,
rickety becomes romantic.
The imagination
is free to create any patina
it chooses,
a finger, a dimple,
the sleek slide of a shoulder,
can become blemish free
and more fertile and tactile then reality.
The allusive is so alluring.
Like a butterfly
it darts past the corner of our eye,
flits nervously around the halo of our
freshly shampooed hair
floats nebulous and free
on a tide of air,
then leaves us to
our purple haze of memory.
We have not been there
for the agony of birth
from the chrysalis of change
nor do we even know if wings
hurt when stuck together with
the glue of beginning.
What if, that day it is storming
and some errant rip of air
tears the gossamer fluid grace
of wing, before it can fly?
We float with the butterfly,
across a vision that we can build or shatter
to our choosing
and leave the sad and broken body
of reality to turn to dust.
