cinnamon drenched dreams

the rain comes soft and light
so i eschew the pompous formality of the
umbrella from my seat
and lean into the delicate drops
rejoicing in the relief of the pin pricks as they
wash my sins away in the perpetuity of nature.

a day spent sweating in the sun
with hands and feet and legs churning
being the machine of a god design
working the ground, reaping the fruits
and vegetables of my labor
singing songs of memories
sweet and languorous longings
archetypal lovers in the heat
with a beat
as otis sings about his heart.

that old “dreamweaver”
as the captain calls it
comes at the end of summer
telling stories, singing songs, perhaps
providing poetry again from the place
where it all comes from, from the missing
muse, the heartache, the mountain, the
ocean, the open soul.

we spend days and weeks and months and years
on this planet and pretend we are in pursuit of
evil, mythical dragons, windmills, etc…
i heart those of action
and heroism who know the difference
between feeling it and fighting it.