Monday mornings, especially gray ones,
Or 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday
Between bickering kids
And what’s for dinner—
Nothing seems possible.
Everything is possible on a plane ride
To a place you’ve never been
As you think of the food and the people,
Colors and smells
You’ve never known:
The what could be’s of adventure keeping
You awake and jolting adrenaline
Until you deplane into adventure.
Late at night, when thoughts churn,
Then when you wake with a start
At the dark dream
The possible things oppress
In their stirrings, their longings,
Their wanting so much of your soul
You doubt you have.
Possible is taking the vast field and sky, the impossible gray, the fighting too, the adventure,
The anxiety and darkness
And giving them over to the light,
This post is Day 6 in 31 days of poetry.