something about
sitting in a small
wooden boat with oars,
or on a dock
or a small rock by the shore
holding a fishing rod
or a pole
with a line
slooping down into the water
on a soft day.
Water mirrors sky
separating the act
from the action.
The reverie is enough.
Below the glass
lurks Alice
with her flippant questions.
Think of walking
on grassy slopes
touching a lake or river.
How likely is that?
A park or golf course,
a farm pasture,
a private home
— a park.
Easier in poetry
than in life:
large waterside
grassy spaces
are more likely
dreamscapes
conjured up by
the weary brain
seeking peace.
Somewhere, inside this metal case,
a cloud of magic, some of it black, some white,
flows by dint of charms and spells
and adds “one” almost infinitely.
Some wizards have grown rich
pretending to control these clouds
but, like meteorology,
computer prediction
is pretty much a mystery
no matter what rich wizards say.
I do believe I would have more luck
herding cats or teaching them sympathy.
