Three tiny eggs in thistledown

cupped in a swirl of grass

in the pocket of the tool belt

I hung on the wall of the shed

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so

the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together

Surely, you too have longed for this --
to pour yourself out
on the rising circles of the air