POPPY FIELDS

I scrub my blackened feet, scrape off the caked on grime of the street. I wash my hands and face of the worldly soot that accumulates in the day-in day-out farcical strife, in the humdrum of everyday life. And I enter my home clean, step up to the hearth I've deemed my own. I sit down on the bidet and shower my flower of the decay that sets in when she lets in a guest for recreation no creation, her slight protest. And I enter my bed clean, lay down my head and dream of another world, another world, another world. The desert springs to life. The golden chaparral gives up her rights to poppy fields for miles and purple lupin lavender behind another world. Walking with the sun, the poppy petals peel back to open and turn the hills orange to start another cycle of seasons. Another world. We dance as whooping cranes who once again have found their lifetime mates. We bound across the plains, roll down slopes, fill our white coats with stains of another world. We come to rest as one at the bottom of the hill, start to make love. We lean against the earth, rocking back and forth and back and forth, back and forth. Another world. Under a wild sky setting sun, we ride the waves towards something still to come. Another world, another world, another world...