Physicists can prove there’s a fourth dimension,
yet, try as we can, we cannot imagine
what the fourth looks like, or how it might be.
Being by trade a poet, I revel
in paradox, incisive metaphor,
tossing all pre-conception upside down,
yet I try hard to keep my feet grounded
while my imagination becomes a bird
soaring into forest green, blue-gold air.
But that offers no practical assist
when the postman delivers monthly bills,
nor when weather turns nasty or fickle.
Let’s just declare the fourth dimension hope—
and get on with loving those around us.