In my dreams
I wander high wastes
Far from paths seldom trod
The wind whips at my cheek
Or at my back
The sun is strong and the air cool
The treeline a hundred feet below
And my feet lead me
Past ledges
Over domes
At the foot of an escarpment

Yes, these are the good dreams
When my soul is at rest
I wake smiling and refreshed

I do not dream of gardens
Or landscapes of the lush
Verdant vacation spots
Certainly not city lights
Or feather beds

My escape is not the hearth
But the harsh
High desert
Slickrock scree
Alpine bluff
Granite fault
Ground frost-free
But five score days each year

A copse of flowering trees
Is just a gaudy gaol
To my night-time eye

Though nocturnal tours are inspired
By what my waking mind has known
Precious few of my daytime hours
Promise such sweet healing

I have been tutored
In the beauty of natural desolation
O that my soul would love
Its own landscape so well

That I would long to wake
The way I anticipate dreams

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
This entry was posted in About Jenn, Other, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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