from The Wren Notebook (entry #75)

When the fog laid in
a wren from two worlds
came flying across water.
Dark was that water
and darker still, the wren.
She herself was invisible
and so
she was gone.

You were saying
the wren flying in darkness
isn’t real
because she was only a dream.
“And just dreaming it,” you said,
“doesn’t make it real”.

I say,
sometimes
I see things.
That makes them mine.
And just as real
as the empty space
that holds them
as they carry on wind
from something
toward something else.

Dream is what we’ve got;
the flight is real.


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