The Dream
The Dream
Inspired by Wendell Berry
Sometimes, I dream a dream
In which, taken away from the world, are
All of the screens and pixels and talking squares,
All of the trackpads and keyboards and modems,
All of the black boxes perched on walls,
All of the walkers staring down,
All of the drivers looking at their laps,
All of the children, glass-eyed at dinner,
All of the husbands and wives, a galaxy apart in bed,
All of the students, pressing a button for an essay,
All of the people who’ve become more machine than flesh and bone.
In my dream, the electronics evaporate,
leaving only a puff of dust where they once hummed their siren song.
Startled, the drivers and wives and children and walkers look up,
and the eyes of the people are freed again.
The eyes of the people behold the cardinal flitting, and the dogwoods unfolding,
The mothers notice the freckles splayed across their daughter’s button noses,
only to ask, Were those always there?
The front doors of all the houses and all the apartments fling open,
and a floor pours out; a living flood of children alive again, imagination intact.
Their parents follow, too, then the sedentary folk, and the ones who always thought themselves Too Busy,
Eyes resting on living eyes, music from living mouths landing on living ears.
And a new song begins to take shape, to hum forth, to trill from all creation again.
An old song, really, one of discovery, of celebration, of feasting, of making,
of noticing and naming, of grieving and lamenting, face to face.
and the eyes of the people are freed again.
The eyes of the people behold the cardinal flitting, and the dogwoods unfolding,
The mothers notice the freckles splayed across their daughter’s button noses,
only to ask, Were those always there?
The front doors of all the houses and all the apartments fling open,
and a floor pours out; a living flood of children alive again, imagination intact.
Their parents follow, too, then the sedentary folk, and the ones who always thought themselves Too Busy,
Eyes resting on living eyes, music from living mouths landing on living ears.
And a new song begins to take shape, to hum forth, to trill from all creation again.
An old song, really, one of discovery, of celebration, of feasting, of making,
of noticing and naming, of grieving and lamenting, face to face.
My dream ends too soon, and I awake in the deepest part of the night,
Turning to my glowing screen to play me its song to lull me to sleep.
A burning stays within me, though, to give my children their birthright,
To rage against all that is being stolen from them, even by Me.
I sort through the drawers of my mind,
searching for a way to stay the tide and stay at place in this time.
I search for a way to stay awake to the world,
Yet not despair at the blackening horizon.
Are there instructions in here, for how to flee the wrath to come?
Perhaps the little ones will be our teachers in this inhumane new world
for all the heaviness weighing on me for their future, they remain unbothered in innocent joy.
Unburdened, unfearful, their dreams are visceral and vibrant, full of wonder and delight.
Turning to my glowing screen to play me its song to lull me to sleep.
A burning stays within me, though, to give my children their birthright,
To rage against all that is being stolen from them, even by Me.
I sort through the drawers of my mind,
searching for a way to stay the tide and stay at place in this time.
I search for a way to stay awake to the world,
Yet not despair at the blackening horizon.
Are there instructions in here, for how to flee the wrath to come?
Perhaps the little ones will be our teachers in this inhumane new world
for all the heaviness weighing on me for their future, they remain unbothered in innocent joy.
Unburdened, unfearful, their dreams are visceral and vibrant, full of wonder and delight.
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