to indulge in a train ride through the Rocky
Mountains, losing myself in the musical
notes of passengers, the wonder and awe
etched in soulful eyes, our pondering lips,
our vulnerabilities mirroring the lush
landscape outside, chromatic colors and moods.
to refurnish an old cabin in the woods
that’s rumored to be cursed, when,
in reality, the dust and drafts and late-night
croaks and creaks are only lonely ghosts
who are looking for a friend to listen.
to bathe in hot springs, respectful of the strangers
I meet along the way, reconnecting with every
part of ourselves we’d allowed to become neglected.
to plan weekly trips to a nearby village and
learn and revere its history; to be humbled
by the hunters, the cooks, the gardeners, the
artists, the lovers, and all those who surround
the forest with their own visions, their respect
for nature apparent in quiet yet noble footfalls
and trekking not limited by time or weather.
I don’t want to think I’m invincible, to neglect
the threat of raging fires and the miraculous
body of a storm. I am one tiny human among
a million unknown, unwritten breaths.
I don’t want to fly in the sky, I simply
want to photograph the countless birds,
the ones I’ll learn about, the indecipherable
and incomprehensible melodies I’ll hear
communicated through meadow and mountain.
I want to not be laughed at when I tell someone of
my dreams; to not be told that it’s a fantasy,
that it’s unrealistic, not lucrative, that I’ll be
cut off from resources and eventually, sanity.
I am too old to be considered a child yet am often
regarded as incapable of handling any unpredictability;
perhaps it’s my own fear holding me back,
or the way I get lost in others’ perception of me.
I’ve let the scope of my dreams be mitigated,
and one day, I’ll reach a point where I can slowly
let myself ascend and enjoy the journey.
One day, I’ll reach the summit, and I’ll climb back
down, thanking the soil, bowing down to a sturdy,
faithful foundation, and realize that I am more
powerful than I’ve allowed myself to believe.