there's a room inside me
whose warmth is unmatched,
no floor boards, just grass and soil
watered from a blue sky ceiling,
each drop reflecting the room inside itself
before splashing into tiny crowns.
in the soil dwell my bugs
whose bustling towns get the jobs done
so that night may pass peacefully
under the soft glow of stars.
in the corner dwells my tree, old and wise,
more than a million rings wide,
and it releases a sigh every time
i enter the room to sit beneath its arms.
its roots grow endlessly below,
silently nourishing itself & my room,
providing a sturdy balance for the structure.
in my room the walls are not solid,
they sway back and forth with the wind,
made of vegetables and vines,
plants and flowers of all kinds,
reaching up toward the sun just like me.
in my room there's a sheep dog
who sleeps near the tree, until i arrive;
his head pops up, tongue pops out,
and tail wags all around. his eyes offer
a gleam of companionship and understanding.
we both drink from the pond, where ripples spread,
slowly from side to side, always bouncing back
smaller ripples to cross once more.
in my room, i like to lay on the floor at night,
and watch the moon cross above me,
like an ancient alchemist transmuting
the sun's gold and pouring silver into my room.
this room inside of me, i want to share
with a girl who also watches the moon cross;
a girl who has a room inside as well,
so that a door may open between them
and someday form a home.
one day my room will perish, or perhaps
it will fuse with that ancient alchemist,
and a new room will emerge.
7.22.08