It is a big sky and all around the wind is blowing.
There is not a cloud in the sky and all around the edge of this island
the sea is lapping and pushing and crashing.
I close my eyes. The desk and keyboard and stacks
disappear and I stand on a path and
listen to what the winds bring me:
A guitar strums,
winter-dried leaves rustle, compression brakes punctuate
the reverie and the cold afternoon.
The cloudless sky is big, promising snow, and
all around the invitation sounds,
“There is not a think that you cannot do
because you can close your eyes and imagine.”