If I had a flying carpet, 
I'd fly you to the falls
to watch the rainbows shimmer
in the rock-spewn mists
of Niagra's reckless plunge. 

Or share the blazing sunset
at Big Bend's mystic window: 
gazing at pastel layers
merged with the western sky. 

Or we'd lower a canoe 
in a Missouri stream
on a star-jeweled moonlit night
and hear the dulcet songs
of gentle shore-bound waves 
and the hum of an insect choir.

But I have no magic carpet
to whisk you off to peaceful vistas: 
only these feeble runes
scratched on a field of white.

Still, I wish that we could get away -
that is -
if you can spare the time.

*September, 2007*