by em jollie

Something rustles outside
and the dream becomes a buffalo
bearing gifts of food, water, warmth.

You are telling me how
you’ve been unable to sleep and I only think
later, in the midst of my morning: it is odd

to hear you say so in the moment before
waking. Then we are in that field of corn
in Southern Illinois, laughing

at how helicopters are spent looking
for little green plants like the troopers
who soar over Wendell, though we both know

men in fatigues with rifles
are no joke.
There are plenty of things to keep us awake nights

but we have to seek what keeps us alive
during the days —
we have to strum our vision

until the chords come true,
until the rustling outside harmonizes
with our heart beats

and we are welcomed back
into the world that has been waiting
to dream this beauty

with us.

Journal, Volume 2 Issue 4