I always dreaded this Dust Bowl day some swirl of wind
would come along and blow its amnesic powder
to hide my footprints, the trail to where I found
something like dreams I might craft into
three dimensions of reality to decorate houses
with clear paths to their doors of would be or should.
Houses like yours. I could find it anytime,
from anywhere, but mostly in the dark of night,
the soporific moments before sleep dropped
its smothering blanket of emptiness over us.
Or the path would reveal itself in that penumbral period
before dawn, when I would awaken to my toys
strewn there across the bed.
But maybe it was something else filled in the cracks
which always let in the darkness that revealed
the phospherescent glow of this Neverland called
Imagination. I would drop pieces of bread behind me,
if I could, to find my way there again,
but contemptible light would always make off
with all my leavened markers. I am lost now,
on the outside in this wretched real world
and cannot find my way to a place I wish was home,
my doors of could be or should. And home,
this imagined place of love, tranquility, wonder
and fear, is where what passes for my heart is.
With apologies to Bob Dylan for the title, and great thanks to my friend Kellie Elmore for helping me find my way back home from a weary wandering in the desert of lost imagination.