I.
I walk through a painting
of a European countryside,
Italy, or maybe France.
The grass is past my ankles,
longer and free in the distance.
Nameless streaks of every green,
soft, sharp, even, splattered.
Wind rustles the grass, my hair, my soul.
The people here understand time.
It moves like the clouds,
drifting silently, so slowly,
I don't even notice.
I'm watching the grass,
feeling the earth,
breathing the wind.
And when I look up,
I grasp for a moment
the infinity of motion.
I exhale illusions,
never and always.
The sky shifts
as I move through my daydreams.
I pull flowers like weeds
and toss them away.
II.
In the dream,
I stand in waves of white.
The snow is cool,
soothing scratches and burns
on my skin.
My footprints are clean and even --
scars on the land.
The emptiness swirls
in my own tears.
I can see forever,
simultaneous stretches without edges,
sweeps of understanding without words.
Silence, peace, and passion,
eternal streams of spirit.