You told me of a giant living with windmills in the country,
windmills like rainforests dripping dew from their blades.
Everyday old women from the village left buckets for the dew:
yellow buckets for the firehouses, blue ones for drinking.
And the red lights on the top of each windmill would blink, blink,
and the town by the river would sigh “h e l l o”

You told me of a river that flowed from a young womanÂ’s hair;
hair speckled with star fish like lily pad stepping-stones.
Of the children who crossed her hair in tiny handmade ships
with wind chimes in their hands and stones below their hearts.

You told me how the moon was jealous of all the youths bathing,
jealous of their nakedness because the moon is always naked.

You told me, told me, told me until I became too tired and slept,
and you told my sleep how beautiful it was for never waking,
and so I never woke.

03/10/2008

Author's Note: sometimes I am overflowing with images

Posted on 03/10/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania