I see it in blissful uncertainty, thicker than dusk The feeling of a dream that I almost remember It hums with thrill. It shivers in wonder.
I press it to my face The soft folds of a faded old sweater, fraying at the sleeves Slipping silently through my fingers. I breathe into its trembling pates A story that started But forgot how it ends.
It leans in close to tell me a secret A wizards robe of a starless sky rustles in my ear and whispers There's magic here. It slices through the crimson clouds Dragon wings lift me beyond the city, and into the darkening sky Up, up, and away. Look closely, and you just might find it.
It is the child in the window who does not want to go to bed. The girl with pockets full of marbles and made-up spells The boy who builds castles from couch cushions and string It is the engineer adrift in a daydream. From its soul comes the song of a singer, weaving stories from the silence.
You will not find it in a framed degree Nor in a briefcase lined with yesterday's news It does not rest between the hands of a clock It withers and dies beneath shadowless mornings.
For the blind man, it is color For the fish, it is flight And for me, it is the weightless hush before a wish The ache of the world where monsters bellow from beneath the bed Where fairies slip, laughing, from a half-cracked closet door. It is a quiet, personal dignity.
And when the night is over When the sun pulls itself into the sky I stain my silent toast with blackberry jam.
Phuong Le