I have a friend who dreams about numbers,
another who dreams about divinity,
and one who dreams about playing music.
As a poet, my dreams are various
because poets remain generalists
who attempt eagle-like aerial maps
portraying the plight of humanity.
For a poet, so much is metaphor—
the basis of all languages we speak.
The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:
aura red glow on tree bark at sunset
or the patter of rain on splattered roof
makes all the difference to scribbled lines,
which is what a poet most dreams about.