tread softly

fragile dream trust

i have been waiting to write 
this poem of dreams, yes,
yes, child, wizened and scarred;
a poem of dreams is the worst by far.

full of bitter herbs,
full of scab and stars
yes, child, an old friend of mine once said,
“tread softly,” and I did.

i walked lighter than a ghost.

and still, fragile dreams ache,
muddled not by shoes
but by lying in the earth
not by use, 
but hiding a sick hearth,

and still, I hear you say, 
“tread softly,” for the fabric frays
and colors gray
feeble hands shake
barely able to lift again
to wave a flag of fragrance 
(that opens heaven).

“tread softly,” I have heard you say,
but I don’t believe my dreams are
a threat anymore
nor are they vulnerable to shoes, 
claws, crosses, or decay;

not when I let them fly
like a wild kite 
raised in the wind
lifting into an endless sky.

don’t you see the fabric rising,
flagging, flying into an eternal sunrise?
then gone in a speck of light
a glimmer in the night
a flight into Life?

below, I bow my head
“no, no, there’s no forgetting,
not when promise weighs us down like gravity
as we listen still to skylight voices”

i peer up again,
eyes searching the bleary blue heavens,
and I hear a voice raining down on me:

“child, yes, My child,
tread bravely, tread strong,
let courage fill that fragile hole;
tread with a fearsome grimace 
and a smile in your cheek,
tread boldly, child,
for you tread on My dreams.”

and my warm tear
is just a sign
of the Dream
that’s taking over me,
cloaking me,
and laying its hand on my shoulder
and whispering in your ear
speaking of celebrated realities;
of all things fulfilled now and forever 
in the single-minded, ever-fighting, 
life-defining dream of our King.