FIELD OF DREAMS

Elegant cob
on a clear lake, glides
towards the marsh

Firm neck rises—
a serpent in white feathers,
crowned with a proud head

Gently parting cattails—
brushing fertile reeds to each side,
he enters the marsh land

Squirming fingers
reach the tulips
where paradise hides

where babies sleep
where night turns into dawn
and Eve cries I am

A master musician strokes
a seasoned bow on a finely
tuned cello

Deep notes pour forth—

now a sublime flutter
the bow quickens the tempo
reaching the final notes

a quiver, then silence
the marsh is alive
all the parts gave and took

until there was no more to give
no more to take, releasing
a scent of damp bark

glistening grass
pollen in the air
a cob in a field of dreams

hearts beating as one
lone wolf howls
at yellow moon

— Abraham Menashe