There must be something to this dreaming,
every day I wake staring
at the same high ceiling, thinking,
There must be something to this dreaming.
Since it is only right there be blossoms
in Spring, fruits and berries in July,
selfless harvests in the heart of Autumn,
There must be something to this dreaming.
It is only fair this bell inside me
should start up ringing. That I should
not pare down my small fruit of a life
inside this thin white shell
of continuous breaking
of day after day after
night, in the endless gathering
of new light, with no real light
at the crack of day.
If there is no fruit growing
from the palms of my hands,
if there is no harvest at the end
of this long hard day,
There still must be something
to this dreaming.
– Published in The Moosehead Review Marylou DiPietro