Song of the Journey Back

In my dream, I saw a half-rotten apple,
touched by a ravenous death,
and the desolation nestled in the green grass

If I were a bird or a pair of wings,
into the emptiness I created, I would fly

the lone tree in the plain, thinking of the fields only
and the tear gathered in the eye

perhaps the cure handed out by rain
has been wandering among us for centuries.

the warm wind stretching from cloud to earth
strokes the face of everything.

my heart moves away each day from its childhood,
as if it didn’t know the way back.

if the trees stopped singing that old song now,
still interpret this dream favorably, time would.