NPM: Our Finest Dreams

Our finest dreams 

Are kept high on the top shelf

Like the china we dare not use

Or the liquor too pricy to drink

Our finest dreams

Are covered in a thin layer of dust

They’ve not been handled in so long

For fear of breaking them

I have many dreams

Of various kinds

Some grand, some simple

But my deepest dreams 

Are still mysteries to me

I don’t know what they are

I’m not sure I want to know

Because once you know

You are beholden to them

Bound to them

And your world cannot be the same

Colors cannot be as vivid

Nights cannot be as restful

As long as your new-found dreams

Go unrealized

I avoid my very finest dreams

So I cannot be too disappointed

If they don’t come true

I don’t look at them too closely

Up there on the highest shelf

I only glimpse them sideways

Like glancing into the fiery sun

And blinded, looking back down

NPM: Stage of Life

Our hostas haven’t sprouted yet 

They lie dormant beneath the topsoil

But the neighbor’s hostas

Are poking their tender green heads

Up from their cool, dark slumber

In fact, all around the block

I see them growing

And feel affronted

How dare they?

I crouch down along the row of dirt

Where last year’s hostas flourished

Running my fingers through the mulch

Searching with fingertips for a sign of life

I find nothing but dry soil

And the memory of verdant summers past

Perhaps mine are just late bloomers

Perhaps they are just slow starters

Waiting in stasis for life to begin

Or perhaps I am waiting in vain

For a resurrection that will never come