By late July,
I’m counting sheep again.
I find an unknown land
to gather the remnants
of my lucid dreams.
Each night I’m walking alone
across deserts where
nothing ever grows.
Years of rainfall
have left them barren.
By late July,
the deserts are beginning
to fear the sun once again.
I talk to them, and say;
‘Don’t be afraid. I hear
a thunder storm approaching.
El Niño will flood
the riverbeds close by
and you will, once again,
flourish; a beautiful oasis
blossoming with life.’
I am consoled by my own
inability to sleep.
The empty spaces ahead,
no longer phase me.
As the desert is brought to life,
a flower lies below each
step I take through my nights.
If I look deeply enough
the faces on the flowers
begin to tell
their own stories.
They tell of years underground,
a seed in the desert soil
still, motionless,
waiting patiently;
the awakening
of sleeping beauty
comes slowly
then suddenly.
I consider how they grow,
they neither toil nor spin;
they simply be.
I stood silently.
All night, I waited.
I watched them;
how they trust all
they need, will come.
They neither toil nor spin –
for all they said
was shown to them.
‘You see,’ they say
‘one day you’ll finally know,
all you needed to do.
You must not fight,
just be.’
By late July,
I stop counting sheep.
© Sia Jane