when you were three
poems spat no sound:

knuckle deep in mud you dragged the blue bird egg
up the crab apple tree—

pinky finger brushed mother bird wing while she was sleeping
big deep breaths, fragile lungs expanding
in a rhythm that seemed so much smaller than your own—

and you took to dreaming of light that overwhelms the senses;
you took to the smell of soil in your fingernails.

when you were four you learned to tie box knots
and build forts high in the woods—

above it all you surveyed a kingdom
like a doberman
or a patient prisoner—

and you took to dreaming of a light that covers completely;
you took to the smell of soil on the soles of your feet.

when you were five and ten and twenty
a lot of moons were gobbled up by gravestones;
and your head began to pound too loud
to keep track of the message—

and the more you clawed at summer nights
the more they bled for you—

and you took to dreaming of a vengeful revelation;
you began to hide your face inside the dirt and dew.
Thanks for being one of the few reasons I even bother to wade through the spam that is the front page of the this forum.

"Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear." - from Tao Te Ching

I still pop in a bit but this was worth logging in for and commenting. I really enjoyed this read Dylan. Thank you.
Promises meant a lot back then.