There

In my dreams, I saw a vision of woods,
enriched by a white light touching the tips of painter's-green trees, and


there


peeking out from the wood:
a nondescript home of genial earth tones and a cobbled path
introduced by a trail of flowery trees
breeding with bees and the chirp of morning feather


and there
down the hillside where tall grasses blow belly-up in the wind,
offering their undersides upward for a tan



there
toward the brook about which you've written prose and strung poetry,
where willows bend low to dip and bathe in cool ripples



there


lay you and I
our poles stuck in the grass beside us,
tugging with fish who have swam upstream and fought to be our supper,
to dine on our lips and for our bodies,
to nourish this dream we've webbed in waking hours and feed these lips

but, alas
we remain too distracted
by a transcendental kissing-hush


to notice
that the fish have come.