Waking

Time to wake, little one. It is dawn. Dawn is breaking.
The sun is drinking up the source of your dream
and is burbling and chattering something inscrutable
through the white throat of the xylophone.
Oh, I know: beyond the gate harnessed horses are neighing,
and in their mad love they nip at your heart;
the mountains before them lie down in submission,
but these horses will never arrive anywhere.
And here is a field, and the meadow is peaceful,
and grass is growing in every vein;
here the exuberance of those who were young once
sprouts like a small healing herb from the ground.
I know: dreaming is joy—both joy and regret.
And bitterness here lasts only a moment.

Open your eyes. Look around. Do not be amazed.
It is daytime. Day. Time now to wake.