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.