dreams and other golden things

a lightning stung tree is the map for april,

broken lines pointing to storming skies.

i want to run away, i say,
and he, who does it all the time,
asks where i would go, which direction calls me, and i get angry.
just away. over there, thataway, around the corner,
up the road, down the road,
through the trees, to the sea, to the desert, to mars or paris or a deserted island.
somewhere else.

klimt would paint me barefoot, walking away.

my open door leads to honeysuckle,
to water in the streets where there should be dancing,
to thunder in the distance, to sudden songs of birds.
perhaps i will lie myself down on the damp edge of spring,
sprinkled into forever with dogwood blossoms
and golden leftovers from this year's pear trees.

i dream of marriage and my mother,
of guarded gates and no way out,
of promises forgotten, of a starless nighttime sky.
the fences are low and i know i will climb.
i know she won't.

i want to run away, i say,
and he, who does it all the time,
asks where i would go, which direction calls me, and i say the one to you.
north northeast,
however long it takes me.
up the road, down the road,
through the trees, over the river, down the railroad tracks.
somewhere with arms to hold me.

i will wait for the train to pass.

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