by Martina Reisz Newberry
Tonight, I dream directly
into a dark woolen sky;
images of planets thrum and bounce.
They must be timpanis, I think,
to make more than just noise.
It’s obvious that the stars
are excited by the music.
They gleam, turn like
diamonds on pedestals,
each facet glittering with power.
Say you make a church
from this dream, establish tenets
based on trees, roots, berries,
and small animals. Then,
when it was time to pray,
a chorus of ocean waves
would begin with an anthem.
Gratitude, praise, entreaties
would break on the beaches
of your heart and mind.
Wind from this dream
could blow through
the church doors,
under the kneelers,
down the aisle
to where a priest waits
to offer a thrilling kind of terror;
he holds it high then low
to the lips of the faithful.
Wakened from such a dream,
a voice might whisper
out of the soft dark:
Nothing to do now. Rise
and feed the depleted angels
of your nature. All will be well.
