A Poem: Dream Child

Dream Child

Sarah is nine when she wants to be. Every morning she tells me about her dreams and it’s clear to me that she must be at least 109. The landscapes she paints, with words few children her age can pronounce, can be horror-filled and paradisiacal, sometimes at once.

She skips down the sidewalk
with tacks in her bare feet
going clickity-clack, clickity-clack.

Stopping by the pond
to look at the koi
she drops to her knees.

And in her reflection
she sees not a face
but a mountainous range spewing lava and ash.

She touches the water with her finger
and the ripples reveal the lava
forming into fish.

They dance for a moment
and dissipate back into lava
as prior to being disturbed.

She wants the fish
to dance some more,
so, she touches the water again.

But the lava now flowing
down the reflection of her face
does not form into fish.

So she swabs her cheek
with her entire hand
and beholds her ash-covered fingers.

To answer some instinctual call
she licks the ash from her finger
and smiles.

The taste was fantastic;
she savored the moment;
and the ash became shiny black crystals.

The crystals were attractive.
They could make a nice neckless
and for that she needed more.

With both hands and vigor
she plunged into the pond
and hauled out two handfuls of black pearls.

She thought they’d make beautiful jewelry.
Moreover…
she could sell some at the market.

Into her pocket
the lot of them went
and she stood up.

Skipping again
with mud-covered legs
she ran through the marsh.

It just made her happy
playfully batting
at grasses as tall as she was.

It was the finest of days,
with sunshine and clouds,
against an azure-blue sky.

But the grasses were getting
taller and thicker,
and the skies grew darker.

Grass turned to sticks,
more rigid like branches,
and she had to move them around as she walked.

She came to a thicket,
and the only way out
was through a bog.

She waded through dark patches
until she tripped
and fell down.

Before standing up
she looked behind her
and saw the most amazing pile of leather shoes.

She found herself in the cobbler’s stall
at the market
when she had an epiphany.

She could trade a black pearl
for a new pair of shoes
if the cobbler was willing to barter.

The cobbler said, “Sure.”
So she reached in her pocket
and pulled out some koi.

The cobbler than said,
“Well, I have a branding iron to trademark my shoes.
You can put them on that.”

It looked like a skillet,
but it made sense to her,
so she dropped the koi on the surface.

The koi mouths opened,
and out came shrieks,
then sizzle-pop, sizzle-pop, fizz.

All that remained
were shiny brass tacks
in a pile.

“Perfect! I can use these on my boots,” said the cobbler.

Then Sarah awoke and shared with me this “tale of a long protracted journey” – her words – of her soul. Her visions seem wise beyond her years.

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