On reading this poem quietly to myself again, it occurred to me that the whole poem can be summed up in its first two words: "I dream ... "
In the poem I'm dreaming of London, Rome, Paris ... places I've never been ... and I'm dreaming of actually being there.
Well, you'll see the details of that as you read on.
As my orbit continues to grow smaller, I continue to dream ... not just of those exotic places so far beyond my reach ... but of places close at hand ... places I would like to see, but probably never will.
But I don't dwell on the "never will" aspect.
Nor do I dwell, particularly, on the opposite side of that coin ... the possibilities, remote or otherwise. I live, after all, in the real world ... a world that contains obstacles ... impediments ... realities that we must all face in some form, to some degree or other.
And still, I dream ... Oh, do I ever.
These dreams are the magnets ... tiny though they may be ... which draw me along. They beckon to me in the morning ... throughout the day ... and even when day is done and I sometimes find that I'm so weary.
I dream ... yes, I dream ... and I hope you do, too.
Meanwhile, the poem:
I dream of London,
Rome, sometimes Paris,
strolling their streets
on a spring day,
listening to voices
spilling like clear water
over rounded stones,
feeling the whisk of wind,
touch of rain, the quiet
of a hailed cab, tires
on the curving streets,
tasting the food
in a warm cafe, tables
draped and waiting,
as though they knew,
all along, I'd be there.
(originally published in The Christian Science Monitor)
Today's word: smacking