Imagine the first time.

There Are Dreams Born In Evenings

There are dreams born in evenings

Such as this, when Friday’s calm

Snows have fallen, and sky burns still,

Painting all white and not saying why.

Little bird making up her mind,

Considering the cold from limb

Of walnut tree--its sticks thrust up,

Counseling bird to go.  Go far.  Fly.

My sons’ giggling faces wrapped in glad

Watch the show of white at the window:

Their first sight of snow:  won over,

Enlightened before the fall of night.

They do not see the bird, but all:

Lit sky, their yard, the sandbox, limbs

Launching upward into heights.

Where to go.  What to dream.  How to fly.

I remember the Coo Coo bird

From the alley, bellowing, long ago.

Its song the only in the sky

When I fogged the glass in delight.

How it lingered, drenched in still

Meditative.  Coaxed into nothing,

Coo cooing, perched on wires

Drawn firmly across from eye to eye

Same sky, same sun burning into night.

I, too, was born in this moment, moved

To enter into skies aflame

As my sons consider dreams aflight.