Before we grow into
our wide glittering eyes,
while we’re still
creatures of question,
masters of why,
lines between the tangible
and fantastical waver
so that woodland spirits
who groan and whine at dark
are real as sunshine buses
and frayed bouquets
of homework.
Every world is permeable,
as realities haphazardly mingle.
Moss-matted stumps
become fairy kingdoms,
and blusters become
witches’ breath
in autumn.
But one day, at some age,
the barriers between
each swirling place
start to stiffen as we
concern ourselves
with what’s “plausible.”
This shift is so gradual
that sometimes
we don’t notice-
save for the sudden
empty drift
that comes with
being sensible.
It’s only when
we’re knee-deep
in the trenches
of mortgages,
taxes, and grief
that we retest the bounds
of our imagining by
writing, reading,
singing, painting, and
reciting poetry,
willing the lines to
waver once more
and asking the questions
we’ve learned
to ignore.
pm poetry 