this world is not my home-- i am
a sight-unseeing tourist, only.
my eyes are blinded
by tomorrow's dreams.
i plod toward a western horizon
that is strewn with missiles, bathed
in an eternal sunset of kindling fire.

barefoot, i dance through flames
and drift over trees.
i come to you every morning,
still smoking and warm,
holding in my hands
a fist full of charred earth
and pale green sprouts,
more delicate than morning light...

in our next incarnation
you will be a blue tractor,
and i, a red one;
or i may be a wheelbarrow,
and you, a chainsaw.
there will be lightning
in the sacred wood--
the blue robes of an upturned sky will open
and we will find the treasure we have buried here:

golden coins
spilling from a magic page