I hope this is how that same melody
happens to us every morning
as we continue
to grow, impossibly: older but stronger
and more and more sure
of the notes that are still missing;
like we cannot possibly still be
asleep—our inclination feels so much closer
to wakefulness;
like we cannot forget
what a joy it can be—just to recall a merely
copacetic dream,
to be carried piggyback
all the way home, or that the biggest adventures
always happen on the inside;
like every belief—fragile, icy
silver, as the faraway stars, starts off
so small
way out somewhere dark—
and inevitably explodes
in a splendid bedlam of wind chimes,
like the ones ringing out just now
in the tree
of pure mind
outside
the dirty living room
windows—of our eyes.