Starting Our Thirty-sixth Summer Here
by Michael F. Simon

We look back at a dream held
years ago and miles away, at youth faded.
Words are leaves in a breeze,
and time is a flow without water.
Somehow, all that spins around
has brought us here, watching
flowers and leaves, birds and squirrels.
Sometimes, as what you want
becomes likely
it causes rips in the fabric of dreams.

Once upon a time, our dream selves were as young
as our dream, to have as our own. A small dream,
which was everyone’s dream. In the dream those
left behind are alive, maybe one more time to visit.
Kindred spirits move here, their arms assuming the labors,
that universal quest for utopia, city of community,
our Brook Farm. The world has ideas too,

like growing older, becoming not as spry, not as quick.
Kindred spirits have kindred of their own.
Promises and limitations are physics. Sticky fingers
become butter fingers. Dropped, lost, or slipped away,
loss follows loss. More and more is left undone,
same as the day before the Universe began.



 

Return to: